


We'll Always Have Paris, Book II

by ProfessorFrankly



Series: We'll Always Have Paris [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:03:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFrankly/pseuds/ProfessorFrankly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Sherlock and Irene have dealt with the last of Moriarty's network, they start to negotiate the boundaries and ties of their relationship to each other and their families--including their expected baby. Oh, and John rather takes a liking to a client.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Always Have Paris, Book II

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of We'll Always Have Paris, and it's a more explicit version of the story that's also cross-posted at fanfiction.net. I'm kinda new to this whole thing, so please be gentle. Feedback welcome!

Life Beyond Paris   
  
He awoke with her mouth on his, her breasts teasing his naked chest, and her wet heat inches from his erect penis, which was doing its best to escape his boxer shorts.  
Sherlock raised his arms to lift her away, keeping up the kiss as he wiggled out of his shorts and set her back on top of him. They both sighed as he entered her, and Irene began to move, slowly, holding back the pace as she rode him, feeling the pleasure of him inside her, feeling the heat build between them until his breath came in short pants. He growled deep in his throat, and Irene sped up her pace to match him. As they climaxed--she beating him by a narrow margin--she tipped forward to kiss him again, and he squeezed her in his arms in a tight hug. He held her thus as their heart beats settled, then rolled her to her side, her head pillowed on his shoulder.  
“Happy Christmas,” Irene said softly.  
He smiled widely in the dark, and they fell back into sleep.  
…  
Christmas. And it was quite different from the previous year’s Christmas, when Sherlock thought Irene dead and nearly turned back to the drug addiction that haunted him. This year, Irene was in his bed, they were engaged, and their baby would make an appearance in the spring.  
In his darker moments, Sherlock sincerely hoped happiness would not damage his ability to solve puzzles.   
But this morning, Sherlock couldn’t seem to care. He hadn’t even opened his eyes, and he could smell the Woman’s enticing scent of jasmine and musk, and despite their early morning interlude, he found he wanted her.  
Again.  
How much was too much?   
Sherlock wondered, not for the first time, how her body could take such physicality with their little person along for the ride. She assured him it was fine. John assured him it was fine, when Sherlock had asked in a round-a-bout way. Their new doctor, Christine Baker, assured him that it was fine. He had no choice but to take their words for it.  
And it was just as well, because he could no sooner stop wanting her than he could stop his heart beating.  
Two weeks they’d been back at Baker Street, and though each day had been full of tasks to complete--coming back from the dead and planning a wedding took loads of paperwork, even with the British Government’s full cooperation--there had been no cases to take his attention away from the joy and terror that accompanied his impending fatherhood.  
Of course, he hadn’t exactly been advertising the fact that he was back.   
And he certainly wasn’t bored.  
“You’re thinking too loud,” Irene murmured. Sherlock gave a half smile, and opened his eyes to see hers looking straight at him. “Turn your brain off for the day, Sherlock, and enjoy our first Christmas together, will you?”  
“I will do my best,” Sherlock assured her. “I can make no promises.”  
“I understand completely,” Irene said, snuggling into his chest. They’d been up late, having Christmas drinks with a rotating company of Baker Street friends, including Lestrade, Molly Hooper--a lovely young woman, and Irene could hardly blame her for being in love with Sherlock when she completely saw the appeal--and Mike Stamford, with his wife. A few others whom she did not know had stopped in and been introduced to her as Sherlock’s fiance, Michele, and more than one of these folks had expressed sincere shock and congratulations.   
I do believe they thought he was gay, Irene thought to herself.   
But today’s plans were a bit quieter. They were to have a Christmas breakfast with Mrs. Hudson and John, then go to the Holmes estate for a quiet afternoon visit with Mycroft. It took some doing to get Sherlock to agree to that, but his recent “death” had taught him something about the importance of family. While she doubted the brothers would ever get along completely, she was glad to see they were attempting to repair their familial relationship.  
“Do you suppose Mrs. Hudson has breakfast ready?” Irene asked. “I’m famished this morning.”  
“No nausea?” Sherlock asked.  
“None. I do believe it’s passed, darling, as I’m now at 16 weeks.” Irene took his hand and placed it on her lower belly, where a slight bump provided the only evidence of the newest Holmes. “We’re feeling wonderful, and I’m truly starving.”  
“Well, if breakfast is not ready, I can at least make you some tea and toast to tide you over,” Sherlock said. He kissed her on the lips, lightly, then kissed her belly. “Happy Christmas, little one.”  
Tears, so quickly present in Irene these days, sprung to her eyes. Sherlock saw them, and quickly said, “Not good?”  
She wiped her eyes and said, “No, Sherlock; very, very good.”  
He gave her that half smile again, then got up and went to the kitchen while she got herself together and reached for Sherlock’s red robe, wrapping herself in it before joining him there.  
It no longer had the mad scientist look it once had; after some delicate negotiations among the four occupants of Baker Street, Sherlock had set up his science lab in the basement flat for an extra amount on the rent. That left the kitchen and living area of 221B free to be lived in, a significant improvement for the time being. Sherlock and Irene still had no idea where they’d live long term; neither of them particularly wanted to leave Baker Street. However, it would be a bit crowded in May if something wasn’t done.  
Sherlock already had bread in the toaster and the kettle boiling. While they could smell bacon frying in the flat below, it was clear that breakfast wasn’t ready just yet. Irene stepped to the refrigerator and pulled out milk, butter and jam, setting them on the kitchen table before reaching for cups and tea bags.  
The toast popped up, and Sherlock pulled out the hot bread, adding two fresh slices to toast and setting the fresh toast on a plate for the table. Irene took the plate, set it on the table, and seated herself.   
“Do you mind? I’m terribly hungry,” Irene said.   
“Not at all,” Sherlock said. “Go for it.”  
She buttered her toast, added jam, and munched. “Mmmmm. Where did you get this bread?”  
“Dunno. Mrs. Hudson brought it up.”  
“It’s delicious,” Irene said, finishing one slice, then pouring tea and milk before starting on the other. Sherlock joined her at the table, and he buttered his own toast. Irene finished her second slice in record time, then looked longingly at his plate.  
He gave his half smile. “Here,” he said, adding his second slice of toast to her plate. “You’re eating for two, and I’m barely one.”  
“Cheers,” she said, polishing off his slice. Sherlock watched her eat with single-minded determination and made a mental note to increase his grocery budget. He poured his own tea, then lifted his cup for a sip as he heard the tap at the door.  
“Everyone decent in here?” John called out as he poked his head round the door into the living area.  
“All decent,” Irene said.  
“Good, good. Oh, tea. Mind if I help myself?” John busied himself getting a cup, filling it from the kettle, and adding milk and sugar. He stood against the counter. “Happy Christmas.”  
“Happy Christmas,” Irene replied.  
“Yes, yes, Happy Christmas,” Sherlock said.   
“Thought we were having breakfast with Mrs. Hudson?” John asked. “I think it’s nearly ready.”  
Irene blushed and Sherlock smirked. “She woke up starving,” Sherlock said. “It’s a welcome change, but we had to feed her.”  
John smiled. “That’s perfectly normal. You’re at 16 weeks or so now, right? Then it’s about time that morning sickness left.”  
“I’m glad to see it go,” Irene said sincerely.  
“Well, unless you want to keep Mrs. H waiting, I imagine you should both dress and head down to her flat. I’ve had a peek already, and she’s gone all out with the decor. I do believe Father Christmas visited her flat in the night, as well.” John thought of his sister, and Christmas past. “It’s been a good while since Father Christmas visited me, so I’m looking forward to it.”  
Irene smiled a secret smile, and tapped Sherlock smartly on the knuckles.  
“Ouch! What was that for?” he asked sulkily.  
“You are not to spoil any surprises today, darling,” Irene warned him. “Even if you know what’s in the packages, let us all enjoy them, right?”  
“Did you have to smack me to tell me that?”  
“Yes. I needed your attention.”  
“Well, you had it. I’ll play nice, I promise.”   
John raised his cup. “Cheers, Irene. He’s horrible about spoiling surprises.”  
“If you two are quite finished ganging up on me,” Sherlock said with dignity, “I will go and dress straightaway. Someone ate my other slice of toast, and I’m hungry.”  
Irene giggled as he left, and looked up at John. “I ate his other slice of toast,” she confessed. “I am starving nearly all the time these days.”  
“You’re taking your vitamins? Following the diet Christine gave you?”  
“Yes, of course, doctor,” Irene said with a smile. “I plan to follow doctor’s orders to the letter.”  
John reflected for a minute. “It’s nice to have someone else help keep Sherlock in touch with humanity, someone who cares about him, too.”  
“I was just thinking the same thing. Do you suppose he’ll tire of our double-teaming him?” Irene asked.  
John swallowed more tea. “One never knows with Sherlock. I will say he seems less bored than he used to, even without a case.”  
“He’s been busy with other things, I suppose,” Irene said. “Then, too, I have ways of channeling his boredom that I’m sure you have no interest in.”  
John laughed. “I leave all that to you.” He set his empty cup in the sink, and cleared the table for Irene. “See you downstairs in a bit.”  
Irene smiled to herself, then quietly walked down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom door. Their bedroom door. She opened it, again quietly, with the hope that she could sneak up on the great detective.  
No such luck.  
He was facing the door, just buttoning up his shirt, a red silk number she’d bought for him in Paris. He’d paired it with black pants, and she could see he’d laid out a black jacket to finish his look. His hair had grown out a bit, and it was taking on the shaggy curl look she loved.   
He looked more and more like the detective she’d become infatuated with long before she knew him.  
Sherlock looked up as she entered, and she clucked her tongue.  
“You look far too handsome, Mr. Holmes,” Irene purred. “Perhaps we should simply stay in today and have dinner.”  
“Woman, you are insatiable,” Sherlock replied with his half-smile. “We probably don’t want to disappoint Mrs. H., but I’ll be glad to blow off Mycroft and spend the afternoon in bed with you.”  
Irene sighed. “Tempting.” She moved further into the room, and pressed her body to his, twining her hands behind his neck to pull him down for a kiss. He cooperated fully, giving her his mouth and wrapping his arms around her in the bargain. They sank into each other, and it was only the sound of John shutting the front door--loudly--that made them remember where they were and what they were supposed to be doing.   
Irene drew back. “I should dress, too. I bought a new dress for today; I didn’t bring much from the Paris flat, and what I do have doesn’t fit well any longer.”  
“I can’t wait to see it,” Sherlock said, reaching to caress her cheek with his hand.   
“Well, then, off you pop to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and I’ll meet you there when I’m dressed.” Irene turned her face into his palm, kissed it, then shooed him away. He left with one last, long look at her, and she turned to his closet to pull out the wool sack she’d bought for the day’s events. A few long jumpers and leggings had worked as casual wear the last week, but she and Mrs. Hudson had agreed that it was time to find a few pieces that would accommodate her growing belly.   
The dress, of deep blue wool cashmere, featured a sweetheart neckline and long, flowing sleeves. Just under her breasts, a silver clasp gathered the fabric over her belly, where it flowed down to her knees. The back was fitted, and it would work as a tea or special day dress until she was well advanced in her pregnancy.  
Irene pulled on sheer black stockings and high black heels, then stepped into the loo to dress her hair and makeup. She wished for Kate, who had a better hand with such things, but Kate thought her dead, and it was better that way. With a light hand, she accented her eyes and cheekbones, and opted for a sheer lipstick. Her natural curls waved down her back, and Irene pulled back the sides of her hair in rolls, pinning them in place with silver pins. She’d need to go to the salon soon; her roots were beginning to show.   
Overall, Irene was pleased with the effect. She hadn’t dressed up in some time, and it felt good to exercise her talents in that area. It was fun to actually have breasts.  
Hopefully, Sherlock thought so, too.  
Irene put her silver-and-sapphire earrings on, and she started down the hallway.   
She wanted to make an entrance.  
As she approached Mrs. Hudson’s flat, she heard Sherlock and John arguing over who got to pull the first cracker. She chuckled to herself, then stepped to Mrs. Hudson’s door.   
To her immense satisfaction, the argument stopped abruptly as both men took in the sight of her. John recovered first, offering her the end of the very cracker he and Sherlock had been arguing over.  
“Fancy a pull?”  
Irene laughed, grabbed the other end, and the pair pulled. Out popped chocolate truffles, all over Mrs. Hudson’s floor, and Sherlock dropped to his knees to pick them up. He’d yet to say a word. But as he straightened up and handed her the chocolates, he looked her right in the eye.  
His eyes burned as they looked into hers, and she knew she was thirty seconds from being flat on her back in the flat upstairs.  
Since that wouldn’t do--although it was deeply flattering--she kissed his cheek and whispered, “Later. You can peel me out of this dress later.”  
He nodded, and took a long step back, still saying nothing. John bit back a laugh--he found the couple extremely entertaining--and generously offered Sherlock the other end of the next cracker. “This one’s yours, mate.”  
Sherlock took the end and pulled it, spilling out a set of chess pieces and a fabric board.   
“Very appropriate, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said.   
“Erm, yes,” he said. He bent down again to pick up the pieces of the set, and get a grip on himself.  
Irene stepped around him and held out her hands to Mrs. Hudson. “Una, thank you so much for having us down this morning. It means a great deal to me to be spending Christmas morning with people I care about.”  
“Oh, dear, it’s nothing, really,” Mrs. Hudson squeezed Irene’s hands and patted her cheek. “It’s good to have both my boys under my roof again, and a girl in the bargain. With a baby to spoil soon! In fact, I believe you all have stockings on my mantelpiece.”  
“You shouldn’t have, Una,” Irene said, sincerely.  
“I didn’t! Father Christmas did! And after breakfast, you shall see what he brought you all.” Mrs. Hudson gestured to her dining area, which had been laid with an enormous Christmas feast. “Come to breakfast.”  
They all filed in to sit around the table, and Irene looked on the spread with pleasure. Pastries and jams, sausage and bacon, coddled eggs and kippers, fruit. Tea and coffee for those who wished it. Milk for Irene. As they settled in to eat, Sherlock recovered his equilibrium enough to join the conversation. The talk turned to remembered Christmases. John told a funny story about his sister wanting a truck instead of a doll for Christmas when she was six, and the fuss she kicked up when she got only dolls. Mrs. Hudson shared the story of her first Christmas with her late husband. “Of course, that was before the drinking,” she said.  
Sherlock realized he had very little to contribute. Christmas had been a cold affair, with a formal dinner at noon, few presents, and impeccable manners expected for the elderly Holmes aunts and uncles, most of whom were gone now. He and Mycroft were the last of the Holmes family, and they had much to work out.   
Irene had even less to contribute. Her own family had been a nightmare as a child, and the first Christmas she’d enjoyed had been on her own, living in her own flat, doing exactly as she pleased for the first time in her life.  
She looked across at Sherlock, and he smiled gently at her. They could read their thoughts in each other’s faces--they’d done that since their first meeting--and together, they realized that this, their first Christmas together, was their best Christmas memory.  
“This Christmas is my best Christmas,” Irene said firmly.   
“And mine,” Sherlock said quietly.  
John sighed. “It’s a bit too romantic in here, Mrs. Hudson. Is it time for presents yet?”  
Mrs. Hudson glowed as she looked at the couple. “I think it is! Let me bring the stockings to the table, then.” She shifted into her front room and lifted the first stocking down, handing it to John. “For the boy who’s been my rock the last six months.”  
“Cheers, Mrs. Hudson,” John said warmly, and he opened up the stocking, which was a black embroidered affair with his name on it. Inside, he found a pair of good leather gloves, a gift card for a major book store, and a packet of his favorite jelly candy. “Thank you so much!”  
Next, Mrs. Hudson handed Irene her stocking. “Now, Michele, dear, I’ve not known you very long, so I hope you like everything.”  
“I’m touched, Una,” Irene said quietly. Her stocking was green with her name embroidered on it. Inside, she found a crystal brooch in the shape of a butterfly, a gift card for a massage, and a packet of dark chocolate candy. “Oh!” Irene exclaimed, as she unwrapped the butterfly. “It’s beautiful!”  
“Well, dear, I thought as you’re blooming, it was fitting to show the beauty of change,” Mrs. Hudson said fondly. “And I love a good massage. I hope you enjoy yours.”  
“I’m sure I will,” Irene stood and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”  
“And now for Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson handed him a red stocking, embroidered in gold. “You will never put me through what you did this year again, do you hear me?”  
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said meekly, and he opened his stocking.  
Inside, he found a professional magnifying glass, a book on major poisons, and a packet of strings for his violin. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure I can put these all to good use.”  
She beamed at him, and went back to the front room for one more stocking. This one featured pastel embroidery on a white stocking, and it read, “Baby Holmes.”  
“This is for the two of you to open,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Go on, then.”  
Sherlock moved to be next to Irene as they peeked into the stocking. Inside, they found a soft, hand knit baby blanket in pastel colors, a silver rattle, and a gift card to a posh baby supply store.  
“It makes it real,” Sherlock said without realizing he was speaking.  
“It does,” Irene agreed, her eyes shining over the blanket.  
“No tears, now,” John said. “I’m next.”  
John handed Mrs. Hudson a square box wrapped in silver paper. She opened it to find a lovely cashmere bathrobe in a deep coral color. “Oh, John, it’s beautiful!”  
He smiled back. “I hoped you’d like it. Irene?” John handed her an identical box. “I’m not an imaginative shopper.”  
Irene smiled her sparkling smile at him as she opened the box. “I love a good robe, John.” Hers was emerald green.  
“Surely you didn’t get me a dressing gown,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.  
“No.” John handed him a small box. Sherlock opened it to find a watch nestled in white cotton.  
“But I have a watch, John.”  
“Not like this one, mate. It’s a regular Bond watch. Does everything but make dinner reservations for you. Thought you might find it useful.”  
Sherlock, touched, pulled the watch out of its box and fastened it to his wrist. “Thank you, John.”  
Irene stood next. “I came down yesterday with the gifts I have for you all, and left them here with Una.”  
“Yes, they’re next to the small tree in the front room,” Mrs. Hudson said.   
Irene retrieved the large bag, and she pulled out a box for Mrs. Hudson. “I hope you like it,” Irene said a bit shyly.  
Mrs. Hudson lifted the lid of the small box, and she found a very feminine silver watch, framed in crystals. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t this just beautiful!?”  
Irene smiled, pleased. “I found it at a little shop in the West End. There’s more in the box. Look under the cotton.”  
Mrs. Hudson peeked under the cotton and found “Theater tickets!”  
Irene laughed. “It’s to the new show at the National Theatre,” she said. “I thought we’d go, if you’d like.”  
“Oh, fancy a night at the theater. I’ll wear my new watch. Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Hudson bustled over to Irene and hugged her. Irene hugged her back, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Irene mourned for her mother. She ordered herself to shake it off, and pulled another box out of the bag for John.   
“Here you are, Dr. Watson,” she said crisply. Irene softened her crispness with a smile. “I hope you can find it useful.”  
Inside the box, John found a new stethoscope, engraved with, “For the best doctor and friend I know. I.A.”  
“Thank you. I’ve needed a new one,” he said, touched.  
From the bottom of the bag, Irene drew another box, and she handed it to Sherlock. “I believe you lost the old one.”  
Sherlock opened the box to find a long blue striped cashmere scarf, exactly matching the one he’d lost in his fall off St. Bart’s. He couldn’t speak, but pulled it out of the box, put it round his neck, and kissed his fiance.   
It was enough for her.  
“Well, I think that’s it for presents,” Mrs. Hudson said, rising again to start clearing the table.   
“Actually, it’s not,” Sherlock said. “I know I have previously expressed my lack of interest in this holiday, but it’s customary to exchange gifts with those whom--” he paused “--you love.”  
He pulled a wallet out of his inside pocket, and pulled three long envelopes from it. He handed the first to Mrs. Hudson, the second to John, and the third to Irene. “Open them.”  
Exchanging looks, the three opened their envelopes at the same time. Sherlock had given them each gift certificates, but to very different stores. For John, medical supplies. “Thought it might be handy, given your secondary line of work.” For Mrs. Hudson, Herrods. “Go shopping. It’ll be fun.” And for Irene, a luxury spa. “I didn’t know what treatments you’d want, or I’d’ve ordered them.”   
Two kisses and a handshake later, the occupants of Baker Street started clearing up the wrapping paper, helping Mrs. Hudson with the dishes, and making themselves useful. They would spend the rest of the day with other family members.  
Sherlock realized, as he kissed Mrs. Hudson’s cheek goodbye, that he’d somehow become part of the kind of family he’d always wanted. Warm, friendly, and loving.  
The realization might make it easier to spend the afternoon with Mycroft, he thought.   
Irene kissed Mrs. Hudson’s cheek, too, making plans to share tea the next day and talk over their outing to the theater. She followed Sherlock out of Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and, after waving goodbye to John on his way out, climbed the stairs to their own space. Sherlock let them in, shut the door behind them, and simply leaned into her.  
She leaned back.  
They stood there for a moment, holding each other, recognizing in each other a mutual acknowledgement that this Christmas was all they’d ever wanted in their lives, together or apart. They had each other, they had friends and family, and they were happy.  
Two lost souls, now found.  
“I feel an amazing urge to make love with you,” Irene said into his shoulder.  
“I’ve wanted to peel you out of that dress since I first saw you in it downstairs,” Sherlock murmured back.  
“I know,” she stepped back. “But you’ll have to wait. Didn’t you say we needed to take a train?”  
“Ah, yes. Actually, I hired a car. It should be here--” the buzzer sounded from downstairs “--about now.”   
“I’ll just get my coat and purse,” Irene said. “Sherlock?”  
“Yes?”  
“Thank you for loving me.”  
He paused in the act of putting on his coat. “Whatever for?”  
“Nobody else ever has.”   
He finished putting his coat on and went to her, touching her cheek. “I don’t think I can claim that, Irene. But I do know that I’m a better man for loving you. Thank you for loving me.” He kissed her softly. “Now go get your coat. It’s somewhat of a drive.”  
…  
Irene looked out the window at the light snow on the ground between London and Peterborough. The Holmes estate, it developed, was in Lincolnshire, somewhere outside of Peterborough. Though the train would have been faster, the car Sherlock had hired was a smooth ride, and it was much more convenient. They could leave when they wished, he’d explained.  
Sherlock seemed to be fine, but Irene suspected that he felt nervous about extended idle time with his brother. The pair had no one to mediate them before John Watson had arrived on the scene, and the last serious interaction she’d had with Mycroft had been when she’d tried to extort money from the British government.  
Not her best moment, though it had made some sense at the time.  
Mycroft Holmes seemed to be a cold, calculating man. Irene supposed he’d have to be in order to maintain his position. How did he deal with his precocious, overly dramatic and romantic brother?  
Coldly, she suspected. She’d witnessed the scene on the plane where Mycroft had dressed Sherlock down for his part in exposing a scheme to terrorists. The Iceman had shouted. “Are you really so obvious? Because this is textbook! The promise of love, the pain of loss the hope of redemption--and give him a puzzle, and watch him dance.”   
Irene would never forget the bewildered pain in Sherlock’s voice as he cried out, “Don’t be absurd!”  
Her fault.  
How had he forgiven her that?  
Ah, yes. In the end, he’d won.  
And now, in finding each other, they’d both won.  
Irene glanced at Sherlock, who was thinking deep thoughts of his own as he deftly managed the car. In profile, the resemblance to Mycroft was plain.  
“Penny for your thoughts?” she ventured.  
He started. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking about Mycroft and our adventures as siblings. Do you know, he’s wanted me to work for him for ages?”  
“Why wouldn’t he? You’re brilliant.”  
“Thanks for that,” Sherlock replied. “But I was determined to go my own way. Determined to experiment. Determined to play the game.”  
“Nothing wrong with that,” she said. “A person needs to go their own way. It’s the way of things.”  
“Yes, but he’s been right, don’t you see? Had I gone his way, I might not have developed the addiction to cocaine and morphine. I wouldn’t have thrown all my money away.”  
“You wouldn’t have met John Watson. Or me,” Irene pointed out. “Things happen the way they’re meant to, Sherlock. I truly believe that.”  
“Sometimes I think life is the biggest puzzle of all,” Sherlock mumbled.  
“Yes, well, there’s no puzzle to that, either, Sherlock. We’ve created life between us, and it’s a miracle, and that’s meant to be, too.”  
Sherlock glanced at her, then turned his attention back to the road. “That’s true. Well, and here we are, so unless you’d like to turn around, go home, and make love for the rest of the day …”  
“No,” Irene said firmly. “We’re visiting your brother.”  
…   
Mycroft received them in the front parlor, which featured a roaring fire and comfortable couches. No Christmas decor garnished the halls of Holmes House, and the staff--of course there was staff--were noticeably absent.  
“Gave them the day off,” Mycroft said as he gestured them to sit down. “It’s a holiday, of course. Would you like a drink?”  
“Tea will do for me, Mycroft,” Sherlock said.   
“For me as well,” Irene added.  
“I thought so,” Mycroft said, and waved a languid hand toward a tea cart in the corner. “Biscuits, tea sandwiches, and tea. Shall I pour?”  
“Please,” Sherlock said.  
Pleasantries dispensed with, the trio sat in silence for a moment.   
“Well!” Irene said, clapping her hands and breaking the silence. “Shall we play a game of twenty questions?”  
The brothers looked at her as if she had a third head.   
“I’ll think of something first, and you ask me what it is.” Irene thought for a second. “OK, ready.”  
“Birdhouse.” Sherlock said.  
“You cheat, Sherlock, because you know we saw one on the way in. And no,” Irene said. “The point is to ask questions and deduce the answer. Strike one against you. Mycroft?”  
He cleared his throat. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”  
“Vegetable.”  
Sherlock looked bored. “Fine, I’ll play. Living or dead?”  
“Hmm. Dead.”  
Mycroft’s turn. “In this house or out of it?”  
“Oh, nice one, Mycroft. In the house.”  
Sherlock smirked. “Is it the log burning in the fireplace?”  
“Excellent, Sherlock. One would think you’ve played this game before. Shall we go again?”  
With Irene coaching them, the brothers spent the afternoon in play, passing the time with deductive games and puzzles. To Mycroft’s surprise--but not to Sherlock’s--Irene actually beat them at 20 Questions, twice. They spoke of nothing important, but it didn’t matter. The goal, for Irene at least, had been simply to get them interacting in a friendly way.  
The last of the biscuits had been eaten, the tea had been drunk, and dark had fallen before they finished their last game.   
“Sherlock, darling, I think we ought to be getting back to Baker Street now, don’t you?” Irene stood, and both men got to their feet automatically. Good manners, she thought approvingly.   
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said, taking her hand.   
“I’ll get your coats,” Mycroft commented, and vanished into a side hall.   
Sherlock looked at Irene and smiled. “You are very good at this, Woman.”  
“I want our child to have a family, and Mycroft is part of it.” Irene shrugged. “It’s good for the two of you to remember that you do like each other, despite your differences.”  
“Thank you, Ms. Adler,” Mycroft said from the door of the parlor. “I quite agree.” He handed them each their coats, and helped Irene into hers. “I look forward to being an uncle. Which reminds me, Sherlock, I have those papers.”  
“Papers?” Irene asked.  
“Yes,” Mycroft said. “We’ve drawn up an agreement that will keep you and the child safe and well provided for. Sherlock has some money of his own that he’ll inherit with your marriage, but the Holmes estate will provide a trust for the child, which can be administered by you in the event of Sherlock’s death or your divorce. Actually, I’d prefer to have you administer it altogether--Sherlock can be reckless with money--but I have high hopes that impending fatherhood will mature him.”  
“And here we were doing so well,” Sherlock muttered.  
Irene placed a calming hand on Sherlock’s arm. “You are doing well. This is thoughtful of you both. You have my thanks.”  
“I also have a gift for each of you,” Mycroft said, disappearing into that side hall again, and reappearing as quickly. He handed Irene a black velvet box. “Our mother’s pearls.” He handed Sherlock another case. “Our parents’ wedding rings. They’ve all come down through several generations of Holmes’, and I know they would want you to have them.”  
Sherlock looked quietly at his brother. “Thank you, Mycroft.”  
“Yes, thank you,” Irene said. “I will be honored to have these things.”  
Sherlock reached inside his coat and pulled out a fourth envelope. “For you, from us, for Christmas.”  
Mycroft took it, curiously. “Whatever could this be?”  
“Can’t you guess?”   
“You’ve taken care to make sure I can’t,” Mycroft said grumpily, then opened the envelope. Inside, he found season tickets to the National Theatre. “Well! I’ll enjoy these,” he said, thumbing through the performance schedule. “Thank you both.”  
Irene kissed his cheek, Sherlock shook his hand, and the pair vanished into the night, leaving Mycroft with a glass of Scotch and his fireplace.   
…  
It was late when Sherlock pulled up to Baker Street, parking on the street in front of Speedy’s Cafe. The car would be picked up by the service in the morning. He helped Irene out of the car, and as he approached the door, he stopped.  
“What is it, Sherlock?” Irene asked sleepily.   
Scratches at the key hole. Dent in the bottom of the door. Latch broken--again. “I think perhaps we might have unwanted visitors, Irene,” Sherlock said calmly. “Certainly someone has had a go at opening the door. With Mrs. Hudson and John gone for the day, there would have been no one here.”  
“Who would want in at Baker Street?” Irene asked.  
“Who wouldn’t?” Sherlock retorted. “Stay behind me. I’d ask you to stay in the car, but I’d rather have you with me.”  
Cautiously, he pressed open the door, confirming that it was unlocked. He stepped into the hall, Irene close behind him, closed and latched that outer door. Mrs. Hudson’s door, locked, untouched. Dirt, bottom step. Dried mud? They stepped cautiously up the stairs, Sherlock’s eyes taking in everything. Smudge, bannister. Gloves? As they topped the stairs, Sherlock looked around the corner to find a body collapsed on the floor in front of 221B’s door. Muddy shoes. Good topcoat. Whiff of whiskey. Gloves. Sherlock gestured Irene to step back toward the locked bedroom door, as a precaution, then stepped to look at the body by the door. Male. Snoring. Unkempt. Clearly desperate.  Sherlock didn’t recognize him, but clearly the man at the door needed the intervention of a detective rather badly. Kicking in a door on Christmas Day? Dead drunk? With one boot, Sherlock tipped the man over to expose his face. He didn’t wake up.  
“Woman, I think this man may be a rather desperate client,” Sherlock said. “I think I’ll leave him here. Let’s go in through the bedroom, and I’ll text John to join me when he can. This man may need a doctor.”  
“As you say, Sherlock,” Irene said. “Do bodies often turn up on your doorstep?”  
“Now and again,” Sherlock said absently, unlocking their secondary hall door, the one that led to their bedroom and bath, and motioning Irene to go in before him. He latched the door behind them, then texted John.  
Client in the hallway. Dead drunk, not dead. On your way soon? SH  
“Best to text Mrs. Hudson, too, Sherlock. I know she’s used to your comings and goings, or she used to be, but she should know there’s a strange man in the hall before she comes home.”  
“Ah.” Sherlock hadn’t thought of that. “You’re probably right.” Client in the hallway upstairs. Dead drunk, not dead. Maybe stay at your sisters? SH  
“What did you do before you had me to advise you in thinking of others?” Irene asked curiously.  
“Left them to their own devices,” Sherlock replied, thinking. “With a client in the hall, I think we’ll have to postpone dinner.”  
Irene sighed. “I gathered as much. Well, I’m hungry. Fancy a sandwich? I’m sure there’s something to be put together in the kitchen.”  
“No, I’m fine, but you go ahead,” he said, already heading to the flat’s living area and his laptop. He’d start with a facial recognition program, and gather what he could before the client woke up.  
Irene looked after him, then sighed. Off he goes into the other world, she thought. She stepped out of her shoes, picked them up, and headed into their room to change into her favored leggings and long tee. She took her hair down from its rolls and curls, brushed it out, then bundled back into a messy bun before cleaning her face of make-up. Pale and casual, she stepped into the kitchen and built an enormous sandwich from the previous night’s leftover party trays. She poured a glass of milk, and sat at the table by herself, eating.  
It’s not as if she didn’t know he’d retreat into detective-world whenever the opportunity presented itself, she thought. He lived for the game, and she knew it.   
She had hoped, however, that she might not be completely tossed aside with each client.   
Wishful thinking.  
Irene finished her sandwich, then heard John step in through the hall door. “In here, John.”  
“What’s doing, Irene?” John asked as he took off his jacket and tossed it over a kitchen chair.  
Irene jerked her chin toward the living area. “A puzzle, along with the drunk in the hallway.”  
“Ah, yes,” John said. “Not dead, just dead drunk and sleeping it off. I imagine he’ll feel every one of those muscles in the morning. S’pose we should wake him. Must be urgent as it’s Christmas.”  
“Well,” Irene said. “I’ll leave you two to it.” She put her glass in the sink and headed back into the bedroom to settle in with Dana Stabenow’s Kate Shugak mysteries.  
John watched her go, thoughtfully. Someone’s a bit bent out of shape, he thought. I wonder how fast he blew her off for the puzzle?  
“Sherlock!” John called out as he went into the living area. “Any reason in particular Irene would be angry with you?”  
Sherlock looked up, startled. “Is she?”  
John sighed. “How fast did you blow her off to look into ---Stephen Masters? ---appearance on our doorstep.”  
“Looked over my shoulder, did you? Yes, it’s Masters. We probably ought to wake him and see why he went to the trouble to break in. Could be nothing, but it’s clearly something to him,” Sherlock said. “And why would you say Irene’s angry? There’s a client. We’ve spent months together with me investigating, and it’s never been a problem.”  
“My guess is you’ve discussed each step of the investigation with her, included her in parts, and updated her on everything as it occurred,” John commented. “Now there’s an unexpected client on our doorstep, and her plans for the evening are in ruins. Can’t expect her to be happy.”  
Sherlock hadn’t thought of that. “Let’s wake Masters up and bundle him into a cab or something, then. Odds are drink made him feel more desperate than whatever his problem actually is.”  
John shook his head and opened the flat door from the inside, allowing Masters to tumble in and hit his head on the floor. Master’s woke with a grump. “Wha? Oh, Mr. Holmes, you have to help me.”  
Sherlock faced him from his desk chair, steepling his hands under his chin. “Do I?”  
John helped the man up and into the living chair opposite. “Start at the beginning.”  
“And don’t be boring. I have a woman waiting for me.” Sherlock said it sternly, and John hid a smirk.  
“Oh, Mr. Holmes.” Masters’ words were slightly slurred. “I don’t know what to do. I heard you were back from my friend on the force, and I just thought I didn’t know where else to turn.”  
“Yes, yes. Now speed it up.”  
Masters gulped. “I think my niece may be in mortal danger.”  
“What makes you say that?”  
“One of my old mates threatened her life over our Christmas dinner.”  
Good God, man, it’s like pulling teeth, Sherlock thought. “And why should he do that?”  
“Because of the treasure.”  
Now he had Sherlock’s attention. “What treasure?”  
It developed that Masters and three of his friends, including his niece’s father (Masters’ brother-in-law), had found a treasure while soldiers stationed in Afghanistan. The four of them had hidden it, knowing that soldiers weren’t allowed to loot from the countries in which they were stationed. His brother-in-law, James Morstan, was killed in action, and Masters himself had promised that his share of the treasure would go to Morstan’s daughter, Masters’ niece, Mary.  
Only the other two mates weren’t as keen to share.  
Over Christmas dinner, the three discussed what to do with the treasure, as yet still hidden, and the other two members of the treasure party--Chris Teak and Don McGinty--decided that Mary Morstan should have nothing. The three had quarreled, and aided by whiskey and temper, Masters had broken his pact to share with them and declared his intent to get the treasure and give it all to Mary.  
That’s when Don declared that Mary would die.  
“So I headed straight here to you, Mr. Holmes,” Masters said. “Because not only is Mary in danger, but I’m not even sure where the treasure is anymore! Her father hid it, and he left me only this note. Each of us had a similar note. Only James knew the exact location.”  
Sherlock showed no outward change in expression, but inside, he was gleeful. Treasure hunt!  
“Well, first things first, then; we need to find Mary Morstan and spirit her away from danger. John, why don’t you go with Masters to find Miss Morstan and bring her back here, to Baker Street, where we can protect her while we search for the treasure. By the way, Masters, what treasure is it?”  
Masters swayed a little. “Uncut jewels, mostly.”  
“I see,” Sherlock said. “John, go and secure Miss Morstan, will you please? Convince her to come here at all costs. We’ll put her up on the sofa, and get started with the treasure hunt in the morning.”  
“Erm, yeah. OK. And what will you be doing?”  
“I won’t be keeping a woman waiting,” Sherlock said.  
It took some doing, but John bundled Masters back down the stairs, hailed a cab, and went off to find Mary Morstan.  
Sherlock looked at the note, but it seemed fairly straightforward. Written in ballpoint pen on lined notebook paper, the note used a basic plus one cipher to describe the location of a box smuggled into England. Sherlock pulled out his most current map of the island and traced out the directions. Morstan had used latitude and longitude measurements. Easy, Sherlock thought, pulling out his phone and plugging the measurements into his GPS. It popped up as a spot near Gravesend harbor.   
Looked like he’d be going to Gravesend in the morning.  
Meanwhile, he’d go and see Irene.  
…  
John still wasn’t sure why Sherlock had sent him along to find Mary Morstan, rather than coming along himself, except that Sherlock was still feeling his way in his relationship with Irene. True, too, that Sherlock trusted John with missions that might require firepower. As they approached a townhouse on the outskirts of London, John asked Masters, “Will your niece come along?”  
Masters shrugged. “I hope so. She can be a bit headstrong. I don’t know how much she knows about any of this.”  
All right then, John thought. Might not be as easy as task as Sherlock thought.  
The cab pulled up, and John paid him off. The pair made their way to the door of the townhouse, and knocked.  
The door opened.  
And John’s breath left him.  
She was beautiful.  
A cloud of blond hair framed a slim pixie face dominated by large green eyes. Her trim figure offered perfect proportions to her petite frame, and John nearly swallowed his tongue.   
“Mary,” Masters said. “I’ve news for you. And I’ll need you to listen to the story all the way through.”  
Mary raised her eyebrows. “Well, then, come in, Uncle. Who’s this?”  
John found his voice. “Dr. John Watson. I’m a colleague of Sherlock Holmes.”  
“The detective person? I thought he was dead.”  
“Er, well, you know. Rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated,” John said.   
“Come in, too, Dr. Watson,” Mary said, and before he knew it, they were settling into a front parlor with tea and biscuits.  
“Now then, what is this all about?” Mary asked.  
Masters explained, at one point breaking down. Mary listened without comment until the very end of the story, then shook her head. “I wondered what you were keeping from me, Uncle.”  
“Miss Morstan, your uncle came to Mr. Holmes and myself to see that you were protected while we found an answer to the problem,” John said, inwardly asking himself why he was being so formal.   
“Please, call me Mary.”  
“Then I’m John.”  
She smiled at him, and his world lit up with her smile. “John. How do you propose to protect me?”  
“With your permission, I’d like you to come to our flat at Baker Street. We can better protect you there. It shouldn’t be for long, I would think. Sherlock’s bread and butter are puzzles. And not to worry, Sherlock’s fiance, Michele, also lives there. You wouldn’t be alone,” John said.   
“I’m not particularly excited about leaving my home,” Mary said, looking around her. “But I don’t suppose it would hurt to leave for a few days.”  
“Shouldn’t be longer than that, at most,” John promised.  
“Then I’ll pack.”  
…  
Sherlock stepped quietly to his bedroom, and silently opened the door. Irene was sleeping sitting up, her book slipping from her hands, the light still burning. He closed the door with a quiet click and rescued her book, folding a page corner down to hold her place and setting it on the bedside table. He undressed, turned out the light, and slipped into bed next to her, drawing her down so that she lay next to him. He sat up on his side, resting his head on a hand and watching her sleep.   
This relationship business...was he any good at it at all?  
He reviewed their relationship briefly and found himself wanting.  
Why on earth does she still want to be here?  
Her lips curved, and she murmured. “You’re thinking too hard again.”  
“I thought you were sleeping.”  
“I was. And now I’m not.” She slitted open her eyes to look at him. “I was promised a private Christmas celebration.”  
“So you were,” Sherlock murmured back. “Do you feel up to a private celebration?”  
She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him, teasing his lips apart with her tongue. He met her kiss, and deepened it, exciting them both. As Irene broke away, she asked, “Does that answer your question?”  
In answer, he kissed her again, sliding a hand under her tee to cup her heavy right breast. She slid her hands over his naked chest, as she knew he liked, and hummed deep in her chest at the pleasure of his hands on her. Sherlock slid both hands up her shirt and lifted it completely off of her, breaking their kiss momentarily to toss the shirt over her head and off into a darkened corner of the room somewhere. He moved his lips to her neck and jaw, then over her collarbone, the way she liked best.   
Irene smiled in the dark, and used her hands to lightly rub his back as he busied himself with her neck, then moved lower to take one engorged nipple in his mouth. Sherlock lightly teased it with his tongue, then gently suckled. At her encouraging hum, he moved to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment. He suckled lightly, then lifted his head. “You’re still wearing too many clothes,” he said breathlessly.  
“So are you, Sherlock, darling.”   
He lifted off of her, divesting himself of his shorts as she pushed her leggings off her body. They came back together quickly, their skins touching and sliding over each other as they kissed again, he doing his best to devour her whole as he cupped her with one hand, slipping a long finger between her cleft to lightly rub the sensitive nub there. She bucked under him, and he felt her muscles bunch under his hand. He didn’t stop, but held her as she came, swallowing the throaty scream she gave as she quaked.  
He lifted his head, moving his hand to her lips so she could taste before he rolled over on top of her. She spread her legs for him, and he tipped one leg back to enter her. At her throaty hum, he smiled, and settled in with his lips on her neck, thrusting slowly, letting the heat build between them as she met him, beat for beat. The pace began to quicken, his breath coming in short pants as she quaked under him again, clenching her muscles along the length of him, giving him the last impetus he needed to explode inside her. They rocked together, feeling the last beats of pleasure, before he relaxed against her, laying his head on her breasts.  
Irene stroked his hair, humming contentedly while he caught his breath and cuddled against her.  
“You know,” he said, “I’ve wanted to do this with you since I woke up this morning. And when I saw you in the doorway at Mrs. Hudson’s, I just wanted to drag you back up here. It’s taken all my control to keep my hands to myself today.”  
“I do know,” Irene answered. “The only thing that distracts you from me is the puzzle--and the man at the door certainly offered that. Who is he?”  
“A man with a problem,” Sherlock said quietly. He filled her in, staying in his spot. “I sent John to see if Miss Morstan would consent to our protection as we unravel the pieces of this problem.”  
“Seems fairly straightforward,” Irene observed. “Line up the other notes, if possible, find the treasure, and split it up or turn it over to authorities.”  
“I’m not convinced it’s as straightforward as all that, though several million pounds in uncut gems might be appropriate incentive to murder,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “I’m just not convinced the treasure actually exists any longer.”  
“Really? What makes you say that?”  
“The coordinates the note gave, in an easy cipher, end at a spot in Gravesend. Why Gravesend? None of the players lives there, it’s true, but why would Captain Morstan choose to hide the box there? And if he was the only one who knew where it was, why bother to share at all? No, I’m afraid there’s much more to this than a simple misunderstanding over ill gotten gain.” With a little groan, he shifted off her and rolled to his side, gathering her in with his left arm and settling her on his own shoulder. “I’ll be off to Gravesend in the morning. And if we’re lucky, John will have talked Miss Morstan into coming back here for her own safety.”  
“Will you want her to stay here while you go hunting?” Irene asked.  
“If you’re willing to entertain her, I suppose,” Sherlock said sleepily. “I don’t want to inconvenience you for the game, Irene.”  
“What else have I to do when you’re not here?”  
Sherlock opened eyes that had drifted closed. “Bored, are you?”  
“A bit, I suppose. Even in Paris I had my clients. Now I have nothing but waiting, it seems,” she said softly.  
“I understand,” Sherlock answered. “Why not set up as a sex therapist here?”  
“At Baker Street?”  
“Er, probably not here. Can you imagine? Drunks by the door, your clients crying in the kitchen …”  
Irene giggled. “Perhaps not,” she agreed.  
“But you could look for office space elsewhere,” Sherlock pointed out. “You have all the credentials. John could help you network for English clients. I want you to be happy, Irene, and I think you’d be happier if you had your own work to do.”  
Irene lay silent for a minute, thinking. “I think you’re right. It’s not that I don’t love you, Sherlock, or our child, it’s just that I need something to do. Something of my own.”  
“I know. Who’d know better?”  
She kissed his cheek. “That’s for knowing me.” She kissed his other cheek. “Thats for seeing me.” And then she kissed his mouth. “And that’s for loving me.”  
“All better?”   
Irene nodded decisively. “I will start a business plan tomorrow while I keep Miss Morstan company. Perhaps I’ll take her along if I look at offices.”  
“Just bring your revolver,” Sherlock advised. “And text me, John, or Lestrade if you see anything suspicious.”  
“That I can do,” she said, settling back down into his shoulder. “Goodnight, my love.”  
“Good night.”  
…  
John could not remember being more tongue-tied in his life. Here, in front of him, stood an angel. And she was coming home with him.  
Not that way, no. Not yet, anyway.  
But he’d never felt this way about any woman this quickly.  
It was like being struck by lightning.  
Mary approached him, wheeling a bag behind her. “I’ve ordered a cab,” she told him. “Uncle James will stay here to answer any calls. I’ve advised him to call police if those two ruffians appear again, but I don’t know that he will.”  
“He does seem to want everything kept quiet, likely because soldiers aren’t to be looting the lands they’re serving in,” John said. “Shall I take your bag?”  
“Please.”  
Mary followed him out, locked her door behind him, then led gracefully got into the waiting cab as he dealt with her bag. He joined her in the back, told the cabbie “221B Baker Street,” and looked at Mary again.  
“Sorry, but I feel as if I know you from somewhere,” John said cautiously. “I can’t help but stare.”  
Mary smiled. “It seems as if I know you, too. Tell me about yourself.”  
They passed the ride in companionable conversation, John sharing stories about his life as a soldier, doctor, and companion to Sherlock Holmes. Mary shared stories about her life, orphaned at 16, living on her own since she was 18 in the townhouse her father left her. She’d received her degree in education, and she taught young children at Bridges School in London. The stories she shared about her young students were in turn funny and poignant.  
“So many of them have so few opportunities,” Mary said. “I do my best to help them take advantage of those they do have.”  
By the time they arrived at Baker Street, they were fast friends, and as John let them in the front door, he was wondering whether he could risk a kiss. Or would that be too fast?  
Mary seemed to know what he was thinking.  
“I think you should settle me in your guest accommodations, John,” Mary said. “But I will be glad to have breakfast with you in the morning.”  
“Er, right.” John led her up to the flat’s front door, unlocking it, and letting her in.To his great surprise, someone--probably Irene--had made up the sofa with sheets, a blanket and pillow. He motioned to the sofa. “This is where we’ll have you sleep for the time being. It’s a bit late, or I’d introduce you to Sherlock and Michele. You’ll see them in the morning. I’ll just lock the door. My room is just upstairs if you need anything.”  
He was babbling, and he knew it, the easy conversation between them gone in the flow of nerves.  
He wanted her more than anyone he’d ever known in his life.  
Mary smiled him. “You may kiss me goodnight, John.”  
He set her bag at the foot of the sofa, stepped to her, and lowered his face to hers. She met his lips gently, softly, then pulled away. “See you in the morning, John.”  
“Good night, Mary.”  
He thought of her all the way up to his room. And he didn’t sleep well.  
…  
As dawn broke over Baker Street, Sherlock was fully dressed, up, and in the kitchen, making tea and toast for Irene to eat when she woke. He might not be any good at this relationship business, but he could at least think about her needs. He made up a tray, and brought it to their room, setting it on the dresser where she’d see it upon waking, then slipped out to the front room.  
He presumed it was Mary Morstan sleeping on the sofa, and that John had placed her there.  
Sherlock tossed on his coat, wound on his new blue scarf, and stepped out the door, locking it behind him. He dashed up the stairs and tapped on John’s door. “Up, John. We’re off.”  
John opened the door blearily. “It’s too early.”  
“No, it’s not. We’re taking the early train to Gravesend. Let’s go!”  
“Right,” John said, yawning. “Be down shortly.”  
“Meet me in the front hall. I’ll buy breakfast,” Sherlock said, running down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Given the commotion of the previous day, he had an urge to make sure she was safe. She was.  
John met him in the front hall, and the pair left for Gravesend.  
…  
Irene woke an hour later, to see the pot of tea and plate of toast, sitting on heating pads, on a tray in her vision.   
“He really is such a sweet man,” she said to herself.   
She rose, poured herself a cup of tea, and sipped it while nibbling on the toast. She wasn’t as hungry this morning, but the toast helped to settle her down a bit. Irene picked up her new cashmere robe, belted it on, and headed for the loo before moving into the living area. There, she saw a lovely young woman resting on the sofa, which had been made up with sheets and blankets.  
Wonder who did that, she thought.  
Irene knelt next to Mary, assuming that was who she is, and touched her shoulder gently. “Miss Morstan?”  
Mary woke, instantly, and looked about her wide-eyed. She sat up, revealing a t-shirt and sweat shorts, and rubbed her eyes. “Where’s John?”  
Oh, ho, Irene thought to herself. Made an impression, did he?  
“John and Sherlock went out early to work on your case, Miss Morstan. I’m Michele, Sherlock’s fiance. I’m going to spend the day with you today and help keep you safe.” Irene smiled at her. “I thought it best to wake you and introduce myself before you woke alone.”  
“Thanks for that,” Mary said. “Can you tell me where the loo is?”  
“Right down the hall, first door on your right.”  
“Thanks.”  
Irene stood up, then paused for a moment, dizzy. Got up too fast, she thought. Must remember not to do that. She held onto the sofa for a moment while Mary made her trip down the hall, and let her head clear. Placing a hand on her belly, she whispered, “You brilliant and difficult child, you, stay put.”  
The dizziness went away, and Irene made her way, more slowly, into the kitchen, putting the kettle back on.  
Mary joined her. “It’s all been explained to me, but it seems so surreal to be somewhere other than my own townhouse this morning,” she said.  
“Have a cup of tea,” Irene said. “We’ll sort out what’s to do today, and get acquainted.” She paused. “I do know what you mean, though. It can be disorienting to wake in a strange place.”  
The fact that Mary felt such disorientation told Irene a couple of things. First, that Mary was not in the habit of sleeping around, something that Irene felt was a good thing, given her apparent interest in John. Second, that Mary was likely a bit sheltered, and a homebody. How, then, would she adapt to the drama unfolding in her personal life?  
We’ll see, Irene thought.  
She poured out the tea, offered Mary milk and sugar, and sat at the table with her. Irene watched as Mary stirred two spoons of sugar into her tea, and she said brightly, “So, what do you do when you’re not under the protection of the world’s greatest consulting detective?”  
Mary looked up. “This is all very surreal.”  
“I’m sure.”  
Mary blinked and looked away. “I’m a primary school teacher. We’re on holiday at the moment, thank goodness, or I’d have a time explaining my absence.”  
“Well, lucky for you it’s Boxing Day,” Irene assured her.  
“Yes, I guess.” Mary stirred her tea again, then shyly asked, “What do you know about John?”  
Irene sipped her tea, smiling inwardly. “He’s a lovely man, Sherlock’s best friend, and a fine doctor. A soldier, too. Invalided out of Afghanistan a captain. He’s got a level temper, a great deal of patience--he’d have to have, being Sherlock’s best mate.”  
“He seems lovely,” Mary said wistfully. “So much older than me, though.”  
“Not all that much older, I shouldn’t think. How old are you, Mary?”  
“I’m 27.”  
“Not so much difference then; I believe John is in his mid-30s.”  
“So he’ll be a man of the world, then,” Mary said. She sighed. “My mother died when I was five, and I was placed with an aunt while my father went to war. He died when I was 16, and he left me the townhouse I live in and a modest income. I was able to go to school on that. I’ve been on my own now for some time. But no one can say that I’m worldly at all.”  
“I don’t think that would bother John one bit,” Irene said gently. “As I said, he’s a lovely man.”  
“Yes, well, he’s a busy one.” Mary busied herself with her tea again.  
“I do believe that tea’s taken enough of a beating now,” Irene teased.  
“Oh! Sorry!”  
“Not at all. Why don’t we get dressed, and we’ll go to breakfast at Herrod’s. I need to do some shopping.” Irene stood, and smoothed her robe over her belly. “I’m expecting a baby, you see, and I’m starting to show. I need some clothes. And I thought I’d start to scout some office space while I’m at it, too. I’ll be needing to restart my practice here.”  
“Your practice? What do you do?”  
“I’m a sex therapist, dear,” Irene said, smiling. “Don’t worry, it’s not what it sounds like. I simply help couples through their problems in that area.”  
“I....see.” Mary took a large gulp of tea. Would it be proper to go shopping with a sex therapist?  
The wicked gleam in Irene’s eyes told Mary that she knew exactly what Mary was thinking, and didn’t blame her for it.   
Mary firmed her chin. “I’d love to go out with you.”  
“There, then. Fast friends we’ll be, I know it.” Irene moved gracefully toward her room. “You may have the loo first, if you’d like. Let’s change, and meet back here in 15 minutes. I’ll order a cab.”  
…  
“What are we doing here, Sherlock?” John asked as they left the train at Gravesend.  
“Searching for treasure, of course,” Sherlock replied, plugging the coordinates given by the cipher into his phone’s GPS once again, and noting the map route. “The note left by Masters gave this location. I suppose 10 years ago it would have been a bit more challenging to find a site by latitude and longitude, but now it’s just a matter of plugging the numbers into my phone. Let’s see where it leads.”  
“I wonder how Mary is doing with Irene,” John said thoughtfully.  
“Just fine, I imagine,” Sherlock said absently. “She planned to go out and bring Miss Morstan along with her.”  
“Will that be safe?”  
“The Woman has her revolver and she has us on speed dial. If I know her, she’ll be able to spot trouble well before it arises, John. Miss Morstan should be perfectly safe.” Sherlock ducked down a side road, moving at a fast clip toward the coordinates. “Still, I don’t want to be gone too long, and if we do our work well here, we’ll be back before noon.”  
“Right,” John said, jogging a bit to keep up Sherlock’s pace. They jogged down alleyways and roads, finally finding themselves in a churchyard. Sherlock looked curiously around them, and walked slowly to the precise spot--the grave of Matoaka, otherwise known as Pocahontas.  
Fresh flowers adorned her grave, but it was obvious at a glance that the treasure could not be in the grave itself. It was sealed shut, and it hadn’t been touched in at least a hundred years. Sherlock took a close look at the grave and its stone, noting the wear on the inscription and the thick carpet of moss over the stones. He straightened. “If the gems were ever here, they’re certainly gone now. But I suspect that this note led to a blind. Why a blind? Why here? Is it a clue to the real location? Why lead us to the grave of a dead Indian princess?”  
“I believe they prefer Native American now, Sherlock,” John commented. “Matoaka, or Pocahontas. Do you suppose he’s trying to steer us toward the Americas?”  
“Maybe,” Sherlock thought for a moment. “Haven’t a clue yet. Let’s take some pictures here, eh? We can refer to them later. I wonder if we can get our hands on the other notes?”  
“Maybe Masters can,” John said, snapping pictures of the site with his phone and texting them to Sherlock.   
“Maybe. I wonder what Miss Morstan knows?” Sherlock muttered to himself.  
“Not much, Sherlock. We talked for quite a while yesterday. She’s been well provided for, and on her own since she was about 16. There’s a bit of money put by, and her home’s completely paid for. She knows very little about her father. He was gone for a soldier most of her life, and she lived with an aunt after her mother passed away when she was five.”  
Sherlock looked up from where he was studying the inscription on the gravestone. “You did get quite a bit of information yesterday.”  
“Well, we got on very well,” John said defensively.  
Sherlock grinned. “Good for you.”  
“Yes, well, if we’re finished here, we should get back to London.” John turned abruptly.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. I wonder if Miss Morstan looks as lightning struck this morning as John does, he thought to himself. This ought to be fun--as long as she’s not a criminal.  
…  
Irene led the way through the maternity department at Herrod’s. “Good God,” she said, looking around at the offerings. “Is there nothing nice and casual here? At the same time?”  
Mary looked around too, and spotted a display. “Maybe those are more your style.”  
Long jumpers in light wool, comfortably cut. Maternity trousers with elastic panels in the front. Maternity underwear. Nursing bras.   
Irene felt dizzy again.  
“I think I need to sit down,” she managed, and collapsed into an upholstered sofa near the fitting rooms. “I’m not normally this indecisive, but I don’t even know where to start.”  
Mary sat next to her, and patted her hand. “Why don’t we start by thinking about what you’ll be wearing the clothes for? If you’re just lounging about the house or going on a casual outing, your leggings and jumpers are just fine, I would think.”  
“Yes, but if I’m to restart my practice, I’ll need some wardrobe that’s a bit more professional than that.” Irene closed her eyes and took deep breaths. She’d broken into a light sweat, and Mary looked at her, concerned.   
“Are you sure you’re quite all right?” Mary asked.  
“Just dizzy,” Irene said. “I’m told it’s normal.”  
“Perhaps, but I think you might need a bit of a lie-down,” Mary said, still concerned.  
“Just give me a moment to catch my breath and let it pass.” Irene sighed over her physical state.  
“All right then. Tell me about your practice.” Mary wanted to distract Irene from her dizziness.   
“Ah, well, when people have trouble with their sex lives, they come to me and I help them sort it out,” Irene said, concentrating on her words and her breathing. “The problems vary, everything from repression and fear to nymphomania.”  
Despite herself, Mary was fascinated. “However does one qualify for this kind of career?”  
Ah, the stumbling block. Fortunately, Irene had a ready answer. “I used to be a practicing sex worker, and I found that I was good at helping people through their problems. I could find out what they liked, and provide it. I took a psychology degree, and the combination of education and experience made me a perfect sex therapist. I found it to be a better fit for me as a career, anyway, and I’ve been in a monogamous relationship now for almost a year.”  
“I’d think you’d have loads of clients,” Mary said. “It seems to me everyone has some sort of a sexual hang up.”  
“How about you, Mary?” Irene said, eyes still closed.  
“Oh, I’m nothing special. I’ve had a boyfriend or two, mostly at university, but I don’t think I have any particular hang-ups.” Mary looked down at her hands.   
“You’re fortunate, then,” Irene replied. Her phone beeped, and she reached for it, flipping it open and holding it to her ear. “Yes, Sherlock?”  
A buzz. “We’re on our way back. Where are you?”  
“Herrods maternity department. Sitting down on a sofa with Mary for company.”  
“Is everything all right?”  
“No Vatican cameos that I’ve spotted, but I’m not feeling well myself.”  
“You should go back to Baker Street for a lie-down.”  
“Mary was just saying so.”  
“Well, then, she’s a smart woman, too.”  
“I have an appointment with a realtor at noon.”  
“Tell the realtor to meet you at Baker Street.”  
“I suppose that would do. Is John there?”  
“Yes, of course.”  
“I believe Mary would like to speak with him.” Mary’s eyes widened and she gestured no, wildly.   
“All right, then. John!” Sherlock handed him the phone, and Irene handed hers to Mary, saying, “He won’t bite, dear.”  
“Hello, Mary,” John said.  
“Hello, John.” She hesitated. “Did you find anything interesting?”  
“What we didn’t find is more interesting,” John said thoughtfully. “Everything alright there?”  
Mary looked at Irene’s pale, sweating face. “You’re a doctor, right?”  
“I am,” John said, alert.   
“Michele’s pale, sweating, and says she’s dizzy. I’m keeping her on a sofa in the maternity department at Herrod’s, and she says it will pass, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to quickly. I think she’s deluding herself that she’ll make it back to Baker Street without fainting.”  
“Oh, that doesn’t sound good. Keep her there. Sherlock and I will be about 20 minutes, if go through Paddington Station.”  
“All right, John. Thanks.”   
Mary handed the phone back to Irene, who opened one eye and said, “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”  
“Well, I did speak to John, not Sherlock.”  
Irene closed the eye. “Don’t think that’s going to matter much, once Sherlock gets wind that I’m not as well as I made myself out to be.”  
She was right. As John hung up the phone and handed it back to Sherlock, he said, “Change in plans, mate.”  
Sherlock, who’d had his hands steepled under his chin, gazing out the train window in thought, started. “What change?”  
“We need to get the women from Harrod’s. Mary tells me Irene does not look as well as she says she is,” John said, “and from the description of her symptoms, I suspect we best get there quickly.”  
Fear crossed Sherlock’s face, then was tamped down. “Fine, then, doctor. Paddington?”  
“Paddington. And a quick cab to Herrods.”  
…  
“Wish I had my medical kit with me,” John commented as the pair made their way into the department store. With brisk strides, they found the maternity department, and edged their way back to the fitting area, where Mary still kept Irene company.  
Irene looked a bit better, but per doctor’s orders, had remained seated for the twenty minutes it took for the men to join them.  
Sherlock went right to her, taking her hand and placing his hand on her forehead. “John, she’s warm.”  
“I can see that, Sherlock,” John said. “Come away and let me look at her.”  
“Really, so much fuss,” Irene murmured. Her eyes were still closed. Mary looked on, concerned, as John checked her temperature and took her pulse.  
“Still dizzy, Michele?” John asked.  
“Not as much as when I sat down,” she said. “I’m sure I’ve just overdone it a bit.”  
“We did hike quite a distance this morning,” Mary corroborated. “From the tube to department store, to the restaurant, and round here.”  
“Really, I’m sure I’m fine,” Irene said. She opened her eyes, and they were clear as she looked at John.   
“I’m inclined to agree, but I recommend a lie-down. And I’ll want to have a listen to your heart and the baby’s when we get back to Baker Street,” John said firmly.  
Sherlock offered his hand to Irene, who took it, and slowly stood. She swayed a little, and he caught her. “It’s a cab back for us, I think,” Sherlock said. He swung Irene up into his arms. “Let’s off to the taxi stand. John, keep an eye out, will you?”  
John watched his friend stroll briskly off, hardly faltering under the light weight of Irene, and looked down at Mary. He held out his hand to her, and she took it. “I’m glad you were here, Mary,” John said. “She really does need to take it easy.”  
“Is something wrong, John, truly?”  
“Nothing that either of us wants to burden Sherlock with at this point,” John answered absently. “There could be physical complications with this pregnancy, but I suspect at this point she’s simply overdone things the last few days. They’ve had a number of stressful issues to deal with lately, and I’d prescribe bedrest for a day or two.”  
Mary looked up at him. “Shall we follow them?”  
He smiled down at her, and offered his arm. “Let’s.”  
As Sherlock strode to the taxi stand, he cut in front of several waiting shoppers to take the first cab that pulled up. As John and Mary caught up to them, John said, rather loudly, “Sorry, medical emergency.” Sherlock handed Irene into the cab, slid in next to her, and John and Mary joined them. “221B Baker Street,” John told the cabbie, and they were off.  
Irene felt silly. She’d dragged Sherlock and John away from their investigation and failed in her job to keep Mary occupied. But she could at least redirect their efforts. “What did you find this morning, Sherlock?” Irene asked.  
His eyes told her she had not been successful in distracting him, but he obliged her. “It appears that Masters’ note takes us to the grave of Pocahontas in Gravesend. Not sure what that means, but it definitely hasn’t been disturbed in some time. Miss Morstan, can you tell me something about your financial arrangements? It may be relevant.”  
“Mary, please,” she said. “I make a modest amount as a primary schoolteacher. My father left me fairly well set when he passed; my home is paid for, and I’ll not need to worry about its upkeep.”  
“What do you remember about your father?” John asked.  
“Not much. He was gone an awful lot,” Mary answered. “He sent presents from wherever he was stationed, right up until he died. The last time I actually saw him I was about 12.”  
“What kind of presents did he send?” Sherlock asked.  
“Oh, this and that. I’ve a hand-carved box, a stuffed animal or two, a doll. Books. He knew I liked to read.”  
Sherlock thought for a minute. He was holding Irene’s hand, or he’d steeple. Irene squeezed his hand, and he looked down at her. “If the treasure isn’t in the grave, perhaps the grave is a clue to where the treasure actually is,” Irene suggested.  
“Yes, the thought had occurred,” Sherlock replied. “Can we possibly go look through the gifts your father sent you?”  
“Ah, yes, certainly.” Mary thought for a moment. “I keep them at my home, but some are in storage in the attic there. Others are shelved or in my bedroom.”  
“John, why don’t you and Mary go back to her house and collect those gifts,” Sherlock said. “Once we get back to Baker Street, of course.”  
“Think it’s relevant?”  
“Possibly.”  
“What do you say, Mary?”  
“Of course, John.”  
Sherlock gave his half smile and looked sideways at Irene. She smirked back, privately, in perfect accord.  
They passed the rest of the ride in near silence, except for the call Irene made to the realtor to change the location of her appointment to Baker Street, at 2, rather than at noon. As they pulled up in front of the flat, John paid the cabbie. He helped Mary out of the cab, then Sherlock helped Irene out and swung her back up.  
“Sherlock, I’m fine. I’m sure a few stairs won’t cause any harm. I’m not even dizzy anymore,” Irene protested.  
“Yes, well, we’ll see what the doctor has to say about it. You’ll call Christine and report this, Woman, do you hear me?” Sherlock silenced her protest with his mouth, and Mary blushed a bit. John, seeing it, held her back as Sherlock pushed through the door to the flat and carried Irene up the stairs.  
“Don’t worry; they’re very much in love and have a very difficult time showing each other how much,” John assured Mary. “They’re an odd couple, but they fit.”  
“He calls her ‘woman,’” Mary observed. “Hardly a feminist endearment. I’d expect someone of Michele’s confidence and profession to object.”  
John smiled. “It’s short for THE woman. As in the only one who matters. I told you they had an odd relationship.” He gestured Mary inside, and followed the couple up the stairs.  
Sherlock already had Irene laying in bed, and he’d already pulled out the baby heart monitor that John had given them a few weeks previous. John got his stethoscope and blood pressure cuff from his room and slipped into their bedroom.   
“Strip off her coat, Sherlock; we don’t want her overheating,” John said. Sherlock complied, and John rolled up Irene’s sleeve, attaching the cuff and placing the stethoscope. Intently, he took Irene’s blood pressure and pulse. “Slightly elevated, but not bad,” he muttered. Next. John warmed the baby doppler scope and flipped the machine on, placing the warmed disc of the scope over Irene’s lower belly bump. He moved it a bit, looking for the baby’s heartbeat. It seemed, to its parents, that it took ages, but in reality, it was just a few seconds before the faint sounds of their baby’s racing heartbeat could be heard.   
Irene and Sherlock took a deep breath in unison, then laughed at each other.  
“Yes, yes, all right,” John said. “Quiet. I’m going to listen to Irene’s heart next.”  
John brought the stethoscope up to listen to Irene’s heart, reaching under her shirt to place the disk against the skin of her breast. Sherlock twitched, but said nothing. “Sit up, then, please.” Irene sat up, using Sherlock’s arm for support, and John placed the disk on her back. “Breathe in, slowly,” he directed, listening. “Again.” He listened more intently, then removed the stethoscope from his ears and her back, and stood.   
“Irene, I’m going to recommend a nap. Sherlock, would you warm her some milk, please?”   
Sherlock looked uncertain. “I want to hear everything, John.”  
“Of course you do. Maybe you could ask Mary to make it and come right back.”   
Sherlock complied, suspiciously.  
John turned to Irene. “Close call, today, I’m afraid. Everything’s fine with the baby. But how long have you known about the heart murmur?”  
Irene closed her eyes. “Not long. Christine caught it at our first appointment. No one else has.”  
“I see.” John was silent for a moment, listening to Sherlock ask Mary to make some warm milk. “He’ll be right back. How much do you want him to know?”  
“How much do you think he can handle?”  
“I think he can handle anything, Irene, but losing you.”  
She closed her eyes. “Best to tell him everything, then. Better to be prepared.”  
“Prepared for what?” Sherlock demanded from the door.  
“Mate, it’s better that you sit down now,” John said, closing the door behind him. “I’m speaking to you as a doctor.”  
“What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”  
“No, Sherlock, the baby’s fine.” John glanced again at Irene, and she closed her eyes. Leaving it to him, then. “Irene has a heart murmur, which apparently has not been picked up until recently. That means that with every beat of her heart, it jumps a little, and may leak blood into her chest cavity. Up until now, it must have been so slight it didn’t register, but with the stress of pregnancy on her body, clearly, the murmur is a bit more active. That’s going to result in these dizzy spells, if she’s not careful to stay stress-free.” John watched Sherlock’s face whiten, and hastened to add, “Such murmurs can and should be monitored, for her sake as well as the baby’s, but there’s no reason to think she can’t carry to term with this condition.”  
“And when we add that to the physical scarring?”  
Irene’s eyes popped open. “How did you know about that?”  
“Not being an idiot, I looked it up when we got to Baker Street. Knew there was something up when you asked John for a doctor’s recommendation straightaway.” Sherlock sat on the bed next to her. “Woman, do you know how much you mean to me?”  
She looked down, shyly. “I think I do.”  
“This pregnancy is enormously dangerous for you.”  
“Not yet,” she said.  
“Yes, yet, when I need to carry you out of a department store for want of a lie-down.” Sherlock’s voice, low and intense, made more of an impact than if he had shouted. “John, be honest with me. What are her chances of surviving this pregnancy?”  
“A hundred years ago, I would not have expected either Irene or the child to survive,” John said bluntly. “But with today’s medicine, there’s no reason both of them can’t come through. If she’s extremely careful.”  
Sherlock looked into Irene’s eyes. “Then we will be extremely careful.”  
“Right.” John started putting his equipment away in his old medical bag. “Irene, call Christine and let her know about this spell, so it’s documented in your chart. Meanwhile, no caffeine--even your tea must be herbal--no salt, and plenty of rest.” He paused. “The rest of this advice will fall on deaf ears, I suspect, but be prepared to be bored. I can’t authorize you to work with this condition. I suspect Christine will agree with me.”  
“Hence the reason you didn’t want me to know,” Sherlock said tightly.   
“Are we about to row, Sherlock?” Irene asked quietly.  
“Depends upon how reasonable you’re willing to be.”  
“All right, all right, you two. Sherlock, now’s not the time for a row. Irene, take a nap.” A tap at the door signaled Mary was back. “Here’s your warm milk.” John answered the door, took the milk, and handed it to Irene. “Drink it all, and go to sleep.”  
“Yes, doctor,” Irene said obediently. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.  
John turned to Mary. “Shall we go to your home and look for those gifts?”  
“Yes, let’s,” Mary said. “We’ll bring them all back over here, shall we?”  
“Thank you.” Sherlock had yet to take his eyes of Irene. “To make a long story quite short, I suspect the gems are in the gifts you received from your father. See if there’s one with a Pocahontas or early American colonial connect. It’s likely hiding in there somewhere. If I’m wrong, we’ll start back at the beginning. But let’s eliminate this angle, first.”  
“Right,” John said. “Shall we, Mary?”  
They turned to go, and Sherlock stayed quiet until he heard the closing of the door downstairs.  
“Woman,” Sherlock said quietly. “Why did you decide to put your life in danger without letting me in on the decision?”  
Irene looked away, then turned on her side and curled up around her belly, drawing her arms around it.   
“I see,” he said slowly. He divested himself of his scarf, coat, and jacket, kicked off his shoes, and spooned behind her, drawing his arms around her belly, too. “Irene, Irene. Did you really think I wouldn’t understand if I hadn’t known?”  
Tears were running silently down her face and into her pillow. “You can be so calculating, Sherlock. I didn’t know if you would look at this logically too. You might have thought it too much of a risk. I couldn’t risk that when I found that one of the deepest dreams of my heart was coming true. Not only pregnant, but with Sherlock Holmes’ baby. You can’t imagine, Sherlock, how much I’ve wanted this. And I didn’t think it was even possible.”  
He moved her braid off the back of her neck, and kissed it. “Irene, I can’t know what I would have said back when you first suspected you were pregnant, but I can tell you now, with absolute certainty, that I want you both. And I will do whatever it takes to make certain you stay healthy and safe.”  
She turned back into his shoulder and wept, deep, wracking sobs that told him just how much stress she’d been under in keeping this from him. Not knowing how he would react, whether he’d leave her, whether he’d ask her to give up their child to save her life. Sherlock held her while she cried. And cursed himself for being an idiot.  
…  
John and Mary pulled up to her townhome, paid off the cabbie, and climbed the steps to her front door. John looked at the lock, saw that it was secured, and allowed Mary to unlock the door to let them in.   
There was no sign of her uncle, a thought that vaguely worried John. “Anything out of place, Mary?”   
Mary took a good look around. “No, not in this room.” She moved into her front room, and looked at the bookshelves flanking her fireplace. “Nothing out of place here, either. This is one of the gifts I mentioned to you.” She took down a hand-carved box. “There’s nothing inside, see?”  
“Let’s pop it into this bag. Sherlock might see something we don’t.” John held out a fabric shopping bag, and Mary placed the box in it. They proceeded to the dining room, where she plucked a picture off the wall, and added it to the bag. In her bedroom, she looked into her closet, and pulled out several stuffed animals.   
“I’ve kept these here, out of sentiment, I suppose.” Mary layered a bear, a turtle, a bird, a lion, and a puppy in the bag. John looked around her room, surreptitiously, he hoped. He saw a light and airy space, furnished in blue and white, with a lacy afghan tossed at the foot of her bed. Her large, comfortable bed.  
John shifted uncomfortably. Looking at Mary’s bed with Mary in her bedroom made him think of things he’d best not. At least until he knew her better.  
Mary turned around and looked at him. Inexperienced she might be, but naive she was not. “All right, John?” She looked up at him from under those long lashes, and he thought he might die from wanting her.  
“Er, fine. What about this piece?” He gestured to a china doll on a shelf above her bed, one that wore fine clothing. “Is that one your father sent you?”  
“Oh, yes. Can you reach it for me?” John obliged, wrapping the doll in the afghan on the bed and placing it in the bag.   
Mary looked around and thought for a minute. “I think I have more upstairs in the attic.”  
“Lead the way,” John said. The pair left her room and headed for the attic stairs, which wound up into a small, tight space.   
“These boxes have the other gifts my father gave me,” Mary said, gesturing to three small tubs in the back corner of the attic. “Best to take them all, do you think?”  
“Yes,” John said. “Sherlock will want them all. Can you take one?”  
Mary picked up one, and John managed the other two. They took them down the stairs and piled the three boxes, along with shopping bag full of other goodies, in the foyer.   
Mary took a long look around. “I think that’s it. Do you think he’s right?”  
“Who, Sherlock?” John looked around again, too. “He usually is. Or he’s spectacularly wrong. But I think I can follow his line of logic here, so we’ll see. Mind calling us a cab?”  
“No, I’ll do it,” Mary said.  
John’s phone beeped. Text. All right with Irene? My people saw the Herrods scene. Sherlock won’t answer phone. Mycroft  
John raised an eyebrow, then texted back. All fine for now. Sherlock mildly panicked, Irene resting.   
“I’ve got a cab coming; they say it will be about 15 minutes,” Mary said, coming from her kitchen. John’s phone beeped again. Keep me posted. M.  
“Well, I’ll say this for them,” John said. “They may seem like cold machines, but when it comes to family, the Holmes men are stand-ups.”  
“Sorry?” Mary asked.  
“Oh, nothing. Just texts from Sherlock’s brother. I think that’s our cab now.”  
With the cabbie’s help, they got all the boxes and bags into the cab, and started back for Baker Street.  
…  
Sherlock watched Irene sleep. Two jags in six months, and both due to him. He knew Irene didn’t allow herself the luxury of weakness often, so he couldn’t decide if the jags were a good thing--she was comfortable with him, and allowed herself to be weak--or a bad thing--he made her feel weak.  
Of course there was an option c, he supposed. Pregnancy hormones could be making her more emotional. In which case they shared the blame for her emotional state. He glanced at the clock. Her realtor would be by in twenty minutes. Irene would not forgive him if he let her sleep right until the agent stopped by; she’d want a few minutes to put herself together and compose her questions.  
Sherlock went into their bathroom and wet a cloth with cool water. He came back into their room, sat on their bed, and leaned down to kiss her lightly. She stirred, and he whispered to her, “Let me wash your face, Woman. It’ll be cool.”  
She mumbled something unintelligible, and started as he slowly used the cool cloth to wipe off her forehead, her eyes, and cool her cheeks. She opened her eyes after the cloth passed over them, finding his attention oddly erotic. “What time is it?” She asked sleepily.  
“Nearly time for your appointment. How are you feeling?”  
“Sleepy, but I can handle it.” Irene sat up, slowly. “Not dizzy, though.”  
“Can you stand? I’ll help you to the loo, then out to the front room,” Sherlock said, extending his hand to her. She took it, and he helped her out of bed and into their bathroom. He waited for her there, and when she’d finished, he put an arm around her and walked her out to the living area, settling her in his chair. “Stay here for a moment.” Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen, and came back with a glass of cold purified water, with a slice of lemon. “You probably dehydrated yourself. Let’s replenish.”  
Irene took a sip, then asked, “Where are John and Mary?”  
“On their way back with a few boxes of things that her father sent her. We’ll go through them all, and take what we need to St. Bart’s to x-ray. I think it likely that rather than burying a bag full of gems, Captain Morstan sent them a few at a time to Mary. No one would think of that, and the notes he left would direct the parties to different pieces. We’ll look, and we’ll see. Meanwhile, I might ask John to take Mary back to her own home tonight and stay with her there for her own protection. I think we have reason to believe the pair of them would enjoy the alone time together, and I know of no better bodyguard than John. Doctor and soldier. Sounds like crap telly.”  
Irene smiled at him. “Working it out in one corner of your brain while dealing with me in another corner, hm?”  
He gave her favorite half-smile, and answered her, “I guess so.”  
The buzz at the door announced a visitor, likely her real estate agent. Sherlock ran down the stairs, checked the peep, and opened it to a fairly well dressed, middle-aged woman with a briefcase and a mobile phone. “Is Ms. DeForte here? I’m Gemma Walters.”  
“The real estate agent.”  
“Yes.”  
“Come up.” Sherlock led her up the stairs and into the flat. “Michele, this woman has identified herself as Gemma Walters.”  
Irene smiled at him. “I’ve been expecting her. Would you like to sit in on our chat?”  
I’d rather be playing my violin, but duty calls. “Of course,” he said, and seated himself at the desk while motioning Gemma to the seat opposite Irene.  
“Ms. DeForte, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Gemma began. “I’ve brought a few listings for you to look at. When we spoke on the phone, you said you needed a small office with a reception area, preferably for sale, as you like investing, and preferably central, or at least easily accessible by tube. I don’t need to tell you those properties are prime.”  
“No, you do not. I do have some more requirements now, however,” Irene smiled coolly. “I’d like it to be within a short walking distance of this location I am sitting in.”  
Gemma shuffled through her papers and got on her phone. “Actually, I might have something. You know that house across the street that got blown up some time ago?”  
Irene leaned forward. “Yes.”  
“It’s been refurbished, and it’s up for sale. It’s zoned for business and residential, as is the flat you’re living in. The ground floor contains a two-room office space with half-bath, with living quarters on the second and third floors. I believe there are three bedrooms, two additional full baths, a rather large eat-in kitchen, and a nice-sized front room. I know you’re not looking for a residence, but perhaps you could rent out the flat as a way of paying the mortgage?”   
A not-so-subtle attempt to gauge her solvency, Irene noted. “As it happens, my fiance and I--” and here, Sherlock looked at Irene with raised eyebrow, but made no comment, “might be interested in a residential space. Provided the price is right.”  
“Well, as I said, it’s a prime spot. I believe it’s going for 850,000 pounds at the moment,” Gemma commented, expecting that to be the end of the discussion. She’d not been impressed with the Baker Street flat, nor the overall wan and worn appearance of Ms. DeForte.  
“I believe that’s manageable. When can we take a look?” Irene queried.  
That question gave Gemma pause, especially as Irene didn’t blink at the number. Perhaps she’d underestimated the wealth of the pair in front of her. “I’ll contact the owners now, if you’d like. As it’s just across the street, I might be able to get us into it today.”  
Irene looked at Sherlock, and he shrugged. Taking that as assent, Irene nodded to Gemma. “Go on then.”  
Gemma stood. “I’ll just make this call in the hall.” She walked out of the flat and down to the foyer, dialing as she went.  
“What do you think, Sherlock?” Irene asked.  
“It fits a need, I suppose,” he said. “You’d have an office, we’d have a larger living quarters. I could keep the flat here as my investigative offices, move my equipment back up. I’d like to see it.”  
“As would I.” Irene hesitated for a minute. “You don’t think I’m rushing this? John recommended no work.”  
Sherlock smiled at her. “I think you’d be more stressed if you were bored. I think your work is just what you need to keep you busy and de-stressed.”  
“That’s true of you, isn’t it?”  
“And of you, Woman.”  
They grinned at each other as Gemma came back in. “Well, apparently the key’s at Speedy’s, and they’re phoning down for us to pick it up. Would you like to have a look now?”  
“Let’s.” Irene said. She took another sip of water, set the glass down, and held her hand up to Sherlock. He stood, took her hand, and helped her up. He gave her his arm. “Lead the way, Ms. Walters.”  
They headed across the street, with Gemma stopping for the key at Speedy’s, and she opened up the front door to 222 Baker Street. It had two buzzers-- A, presumably the office, and B, presumably the living quarters. The opening foyer had parquet floors, and a new stair to the second floor. A door on the right, labeled “A,” led to the office space. Gemma opened that door first, and as they walked in, Irene looked coolly around. It two rooms, enough for a large office behind the dividing wall and a front reception area that could be used as a lounge. It had no color at all; it was all white walls and hardwood.   
“Hmmm.” Irene appeared to be less than impressed. “Let’s see the living quarters.”  
They climbed the stairs and let themselves into the main door, which led directly into a large front room that featured a fireplace and built in bookshelves. A passthrough to the left led to a large eat-in kitchen, and short hallway off the kitchen led to two bedrooms, across the hall from each other, and a bath.  
Irene remained noncommittal, and Sherlock stayed silent as they climbed the next set of stairs to the third bedroom, which featured an ensuite bath that included a steam shower and hot tub.  
“I see they’ve left it in neutral colors,” Gemma said. “You can do your own decor.”  
“Not much character,” Irene said, and stifled a yawn. Sherlock looked away from her, afraid he’d give her away. Unless he was much mistaken, his woman wanted the place. Badly.  
“No, but you can add it!” Gemma said brightly.   
“Well, we’ll see what else there might be,” Irene said. “Take another look around, would you? And get in touch. They’re asking a bit too much for what they’re offering here.”  
“Ah, right then.” Gemma showed them out, locked up, and turned the key back in at Speedy’s before turning back to the couple. “I’ll keep looking, and if I find something that meets your requirements, I’ll let you know. Just as a question, what would you find a reasonable price for the building across the street?”  
Irene stifled another yawn. “Goodness, pregnancy makes me tired. Sherlock, dear, can I have your arm again?” He offered it, and she tucked her hand into his elbow. “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson couldn’t get a penny over 550 for 221. I can’t imagine spending any more than that, can you, dear?”  
Sherlock was trying desperately not to laugh and give her game away, so his look was stern. “Certainly not.”  
“Well, then, Ms. Walters, do get in touch if you find something, will you?” Irene shook Gemma’s hand. “Sherlock, be a dear and escort me up. I’m feeling a bit faint.”  
No, she wasn’t, Sherlock thought. In fact, her eyes sparkled and she had color in her cheeks. The game, he knew, would make her feel better in general. Her game.  
“Shall I carry you, darling?” Sherlock asked solicitously.   
“Oh, if you don’t mind,” Irene said, laying it on a bit thick for Gemma’s sake. Obligingly, Sherlock swung her up and pressed through the door at 221B. “Thank you again, Ms. Walters!”  
Sherlock set her down in the foyer and latched the door behind them. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”  
“Oh, very much. Did you see? Do you think it’s perfect?”  
“If it’s what you want, I have no objection. Except for the paying-for-it part. How do you propose we do that?”  
Irene looked slyly at him. “I do have a bit put by, you know. The Swiss keep marvelous accounts. I could probably buy it outright. It would be cheaper, especially if you want to continue the rent on the flat here as investigative headquarters.”  
“Well, that would solve that,” Sherlock said. “Wonder if John and Mary are back yet?”  
“What, Mr. and Ms. Bill and Coo?”  
“Noticed that, too, did you?”  
“Who wouldn’t? They’re adorable, aren’t they?”  
“Let’s just not get too far ahead of ourselves.” They walked up the stairs to the flat, letting themselves in. John and Mary had yet to arrive, it seemed. Sherlock tossed his coat over a chair and stripped the sofa of its sheets and pillows, tossing them back into the hamper in the hallway. “Sit down, Woman. I’ll bring you some tea.”  
“Herbal, right?”  
“Oh, right. Do we have herbal tea? I don’t have the faintest.”  
Irene laughed. “Warm milk will do, darling.”  
“Right. I think I can do that. We’ll have to go out to the shops and get some herbal tea somethings. What kind of herbal tea do you like?”  
“Haven’t the faintest, either. Maybe they have multipacks or something. I’ll do a bit of research on herbal teas that are good for pregnant ladies and get back to you.”  
“How can we not know the faintest about herbal teas? Doesn’t that seem like something we ought to know?”  
Irene started laughing so hard he thought she might start convulsing.  
“Really, woman. I know most of the main poisons in the known universe, but I haven’t the slightest idea what herbal teas are best for gestating females!” Sherlock started slamming cupboard doors for effect as he warmed the milk in the microwave. “I think I’ll have to be taking a course in botany.”  
Irene’s peals of laughter rang through the flat, and as Sherlock placed a mug of warm milk at her elbow, she had to wipe her eyes. “We are too clever for our own good, Sherlock, darling.”  
They heard the door downstairs open and close, and a series of bumps. “Hello!” John called up. “Sherlock, we could use a hand here.”  
“Coming.” Sherlock leaned down and kissed Irene. “Stay put, woman.”  
Mary came up with the shopping bag, closely followed by John with one of the boxes. “There are two more in the foyer,” John said.   
“Right.” Sherlock strode downstairs and picked up one box as John came down for the other. They put them all in the front room of the flat, and started opening them. Sherlock started first with the bagged items. He set aside the stuffed animals for x-raying. He also took a closer look at the box, and found nothing.   
John handed him the china doll. “It’s colonial dress, Sherlock. Think perhaps it might be what the sign pointed to?”  
“Maybe. Let’s set it in the x-ray pile.”   
Mary started opening books. “Shall I look at the edges where the paper meets the binding?”  
Sherlock looked her direction. “Yes, that’s a good deduction. Look for bumps under the paper.”   
Irene picked up a figurine, and looked it over, tipping it to look at the bottom. She noticed a plug in the bottom, and she gently prised it out. She looked inside, and saw a bit of plastic. Irene smiled, and said quietly, “Sherlock?”  
“Yes, yes, what is it?” he replied absently, examining another volume of poetry.   
“I think I found something,” she said, showing him the figurine. “See?”  
“Brilliant,” he said. “Mary, who is this figurine?”  
“Ah, not sure. Some sort of woman from India.”  
“An Indian princess.” Sherlock smiled widely.  
“Pocahontas?” John commented.  
“Looks that way,” Sherlock said. “Mary, do you mind if we get this out? We might have to break it.”  
“No, go on. I’d forgotten that old thing,” Mary answered.   
“John, fetch me those needle-nose pliers on my workbench.”  
“That’s all the way downstairs,” John commented.  
“Oh, right. That’ll change soon.”  
“For goodness’ sake,” Mary exclaimed. “Break it and be done with it.”  
Sherlock looked up at her. “Sure?”  
“Oh, yes. I can’t wait to see what that is.”  
He shrugged, then set the empty shopping bag on the floor and threw the figurine as hard as he could into the bottom of it. The figurine broke completely in two, and Sherlock reached into the bag to pull out a plastic sandwich bag. Inside, the dull gleam of half a dozen uncut gems shone through the clear plastic.  
“Sparkly,” Irene breathed.  
“I can’t believe those were in that little figure,” Mary said.   
“I believe those gems belong to you, Mary,” Sherlock said. “And now there’s motive for the threat against your life.”  
“You don’t really think those blokes will hurt me for these, do you? I was under the impression that these threats were mostly drunken talk,” Mary said.  
“If that were so, why did you agree to come here under our protection?”  
Mary blushed, and looked sideways at John. “Perhaps I thought it was a good way to get to know someone.”  
“Ah.” Sherlock looked again at Irene, and saw his thoughts reflected in her face. “I do, however, believe the threat to be very real.” He thought for a moment. “We might stand a better chance of catching your potential assailants if you stayed in your own home. Perhaps with a bodyguard? John, would you consent to spending the night at Mary’s home? I’d go with you, but I’m afraid to let Irene be alone here, with the baby and all.”  
Oh, you’re a bad man, Irene thought smugly. “I would feel better if Sherlock were here, too, John. But you’re surely capable of protecting Mary?”  
“I could, yes, if Mary’s willing for me to come,” John said, looking at her. “I’d like to.”  
“Well, then, that’s settled,” Irene said decisively. “Now, let’s go out and get something to eat. I’m famished.”  
“Ah, yes,” Sherlock said. “Why don’t we do takeaway? I’d like to go through the rest of this, and perhaps head to Bart’s to x-ray the animals before we rip them apart.”  
John pulled out his phone. “I’ll call. Chinese?”  
To general accord, John ordered from restaurant down the street. “Twenty minutes, Irene. Meanwhile, fancy a biscuit? I think we’ve got some. Somewhere.”  
“Thank you, John,” Irene said, patting his arm. “You’re a dear.”  
John got up and went to the kitchen, searching for the digestive biscuits he’d picked up the week before. Oats with dark chocolate--perfect. He found them in the back of the pantry where he’d hidden them from Sherlock and his sweet tooth, and brought the packet back to Irene, who nibbled while sipping her milk.  
Sherlock set down the book he’d been looking at in one pile, and picked up the next. Mary, in her way, was working through another box.   
“Don’t you think it likely, Sherlock, that if there are more gems here, they’d be in other figurines?” Irene asked.  
“Likely, but it won’t do to leave any stone unturned, if you’ll pardon the pun.” He pushed the box containing the few other figurines toward her. “Have a look.”  
Irene and John began picking through the figurines. Irene turned them over. Most had empty holes instead of plugs, and she could easily see that nothing was contained in them. John found the next baggie of gems in a small Tom Sawyer statue.   
“What do you want to bet that the next clue led to something like the Sawyer’s Guild Hall?” Sherlock mused.  
Mary found the next set, tucked into the binding of her copy of Little Women.   
“I’m sensing a theme here,” Sherlock said. “They all have something to do with American literature in some sense.”  
The buzzer signaled the presence of food. John went down to pay for it and Irene went to the kitchen to set the table.   
Sherlock remained where he was, reaching for the last stuffed animal, a replica of Mickey Mouse. He squeezed it carefully, and found a hard lump in the Mickey’s head. He set it at the top of the pile for Bart’s. “Looks like I’ve got my best candidate for the x-ray,” Sherlock said.  
John came up the stairs with the bags of Chinese, and he and Irene set it up as Sherlock and Mary put the unaltered items back into their boxes. Sherlock piled the items for x-ray into the shopping bag, then set them in the corner to be taken to Bart’s in the morning. He believed it a safe assumption that the rest of the gems would be found there.  
How much could these uncut gems be worth? Sherlock mused.  
“Sherlock, darling, come to the table,” Irene called.   
He hated interruptions, but maybe he could pick her brain over the gems over dinner.  
“Fine, fine, I’m coming.”  
The foursome sat at the table, sharing dim sum and assorted other Chinese foods. Sherlock ate little and said nothing. Irene and John both recognized the symptoms of intense thinking, and left him to it. Instead, they engaged Mary in conversation. Irene did her best to facilitate the meeting of the minds that was John and Mary, who clearly were becoming besotted with each other. As they all lingered over coffee--Irene had decaf--John and Mary finalized plans to go back to her home for the evening. John planned to have DI Lestrade on speed dial, and he would, in fact, discuss the case with him before they turned in. A threat serious enough needed a call to the police. Sherlock raised no objection.  
For her part, Mary decided to bring the items not needed for x-ray back home with her, and she wondered out loud, “I can’t seem to see the value in those rocks. What could they be worth?”  
Irene took another sip of her coffee. “Uncut, they’re valuable, but they don’t have the same value they’d have as cut gems. The trade off, of course, is that uncut gems are much easier to sell. You’ve unearthed 18 uncut gems of good size, at least three of which are diamonds. Some are rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. I’d estimate their current value to be a quarter million pounds, or thereabouts.”  
“Certainly enough to kill over,” Sherlock suddenly said out loud. They all looked at him. “I was wondering the same thing, Mary. I don’t think the gems we’ve found here are all that there were, or are. I think your father sold most of them himself, and used the money to provide security for you. The elaborate treasure hunt? A con to throw his partners off the trail of the bulk of the gems. Of course, I’d have to verify your father’s financial arrangements. How much does a soldier in action make, John? And what kind of benefits do families get if their soldiers are killed in action?”  
John turned the question over for a second. “Well, combatants receive hazard pay, so they make a considerable amount. And if one is killed in action, their designated beneficiaries receive the costs of burial and a one-time life insurance payment to cover other costs and debts. It’s something, but it’s not a lot. If I’d had a young child to care for, I’d have been looking at other options to leave her well set.”  
“Well and it appears my father did find another option, didn’t he?” Mary thought for a second. “Sherlock, is there any reason to suspect that I don’t own the gems that were sent to me?”  
Sherlock shrugged. “There’s no way of knowing where they came from, and the only clear trail goes through your father to you. To my understanding, the gems belong to you, and only you. If your uncle and his pals can’t produce a written contract, you could tie them up in court for years to keep their hands off the gems and the income they might produce for you. No, I’m afraid they’ve no leg to stand on if they want these.”  
John looked at Sherlock. “I’ll go back with Mary tonight, but I think we should leave the gems here, just for an extra bit of safety.”  
“Agreed,” Sherlock said. “I’ll lock them in the safe. Meanwhile, let no one know what we’ve found, and there’s not reason to suspect that we know anything.”  
John stood. “I’ll clear the table, Mary, while you get your things together. Then give me a few minutes to put my own bag together and we’ll be off.” He smiled shyly. “We can pretend you’re bringing me home for a few days.”  
“Oh, I don’t think we need to pretend,” Mary said lightly, and swayed her hips subtly as she went out to the living area.  
Irene grinned inwardly at the expression on John’s face. If she was any judge, John would thoroughly enjoy his bodyguard assignment. Sherlock looked after Mary, then swung his gaze back to John. “Don’t get too distracted, John. Safety first for Mary, and, er, love second.”  
“Who says I--”  
Irene and Sherlock both looked at him with raised eyebrows.  
“Yeah, right, OK.” John swallowed. “You do the dishes then, while I go get my bag together. And find my revolver.”  
As he strode out, Irene and Sherlock looked at each other, and started laughing.  
…  
As John packed, he fumed.  
What do they think they know? Just because she’s … beautiful … and kind … and smart ….  
Oh, yeah, I’m sunk, John thought. And accepted it.  
A tap at his door got his attention, and John turned around.  
Sherlock lounged at the door. “Have everything you need?”  
“I should think so.” John zipped up a small duffle.  
“Clothes, revolver.” Sherlock paused. “Condoms.”  
“You’re being funny, now?”  
“Yes, well, the whole situation amuses me.” Sherlock stepped in, and shut the door. “Look, I’ve got a rather personal question for you, doctor, because I’m getting conflicting answers in my research.”  
John raised both eyebrows. “Really?”  
“I know we’ve briefly touched on this subject before, but now I need to ask the straight question: Is it safe for the Woman and I to have sex?”  
John started to say something funny--just to get him back for the “condoms” remark--but a closer look at Sherlock’s face convinced him this was not a time for jokes. John cleared his throat. “I haven’t seen the pictures of the internal scarring. Christine has. If she says sex is OK, then I have to infer that it’s not in a spot that has weakened the uterus or cervix specifically, and sex will not endanger the pregnancy. The murmur has me a little concerned, but, again, as long as she’s feeling well enough to have sex to begin with, you’re likely fine. I mean, she doesn’t have to deny herself if she’s in the mood. The endorphins that come with good sex are probably very beneficial, actually.”   
Sherlock bit his lip, surprising John. John was not used to seeing his friend look uncertain. “Are you sure?”  
“Yes,” John said. “Don’t push the issue, especially if she’s not feeling well, but you don’t need to deny each other an activity you both clearly enjoy.” John allowed himself a smirk. “Never thought I’d be having this discussion with you.”  
“Yes, well, I’ve always been interested in women; I just never was interested enough to pursue a relationship,” Sherlock said absently, still thinking. “I spent years exercising control of my libido, focusing on the game. It’s just that the Woman...”  
“Yes, well, she definitely got your attention,” John said, reminiscing.  
“That she did,” Sherlock agreed. “John, can I ask you something else?”  
“Anything, mate.”  
“Will you promise to tell me if you think I’m screwing things up? You have considerably more experience than I do with the opposite sex, and I’m such a self-centered person, I’m afraid I’ll make some fatal mistake,” Sherlock said. “I don’t want to do that.”  
“Well, that’s half the battle, Sherlock,” John said. “She loves you; she’s not going to toss you over for one mistake. Just be honest with her, think of her needs, and do your best by her. That’s all you can do.”  
“Hmm. That may be profound.” Sherlock held out a hand, and John took it. “One more thing, John. It’s customary, when getting married, to have a best man. You’re the best man I know. Will you do the honors?”  
Touched, John shook Sherlock’s hand. “I’d be glad to.”  
Sherlock stepped back toward the door. “Well, keep Mary safe tonight. If you see anything of those other ruffians, call Lestrade. It would be great to catch them in the act of breaking into her house.”  
“I’ll keep it in mind.”  
Sherlock smirked. “I won’t tell you how close you need to be.”  
“Yeah, well, thanks for that. I’ll do the job.”  
“Of course you will. Oh, and top drawer.” Sherlock started back downstairs. John looked after him, puzzled, then looked in his top drawer.  
He found a box of 150 condoms.  
“Should I feel flattered?” He shouted down.  
All he heard was Sherlock’s chuckle. John looked at the box, and he shrugged. Why not? He opened it and tucked a handful of condoms into his duffle. Likely won’t need them tonight, but best to be prepared, he thought.  
John headed downstairs, collected Mary, and off they went. Sherlock watched them from the upstairs window, noticing how John took Mary’s bags, stowed them all, then helped her into the cab. “Any excuse to get his hands on her,” he muttered.   
Irene, lounging in his chair, looked up. “And she’s no better, Sherlock. There’s definitely an attraction there.”  
Sherlock watched the cab drive off, and let the curtain drop back in place. He collected the gems from their spots on his desk, and locked them into his book safe. Then he sat across from Irene, steepling his fingers and thinking.  
Irene, content with her book, made no comment as the silence spun out between them. Sherlock often went into his own mind when thinking about a particularly challenging puzzle, and it had never bothered her. She found it sexy, actually. She stole little glances over the pages at him, watching thoughts change in his eyes. It seemed to her she could actually see puzzle pieces falling into place while she watched. After several minutes, Irene put her book down, and she decided to try an experiment. She went into their bedroom and changed into a sheer black lace nightgown. It covered her from neck to ankle, clinging to her figure without being tight anywhere--including the slight baby bump. It left very little to the imagination, but the lace covered enough to be enticing. She then took her hair down, letting it spill over her shoulders the way Sherlock liked it. Her earlier crying jag had cleaned her face of makeup, so she added a bit of eye make-up to make her eyes bluer.  
“Let’s see if this gets your attention, master detective,” Irene told the mirror, looking at herself.  
She stepped into tall red heels, and sauntered into the living area of the flat. Sherlock still had his thinking pose on, and he was staring into space, facing the smiley face wall. Irene stepped directly into his line of sight, and said, “Mr. Holmes, can I help you?”  
Startled, his eyes refocused. Her lovely breasts, larger with pregnancy and clearly outlined in black lace, had suddenly popped into his vision. He felt himself start to go hard, and he looked up at her hair and eyes, then let his own eyes feast on the body that had finally gotten his attention, almost a year and a half ago. The smooth contours of her thighs met her center, highlighted under the black lace, and the gentle curve of her belly, highlighting the spot where their child grew, turned him on like nothing else could. He dropped to his knees in front her and laid his hands on her belly, placing a kiss on it through her gown.  
“Trying to get my attention?”   
“Yes. Is it working?”  
He kissed her belly again, then rose, extending his hand to her. She took it, and he led her back to their room. “One of these days,” Irene murmured, “I am going to take you on that desk out there.”  
“I look forward to it,” Sherlock answered. “But for tonight, I fancy having you in our bed.” He paused. “If you’re up for it.”  
“I feel lovely, Sherlock,” Irene sighed. “Light and lovely.”  
“You are that, Irene,” he said, feathering a hand lightly along her jawbone. “Light, and lovely, and mine. I just want you to be sure you want this.”  
“Oh, you dear man,” Irene raised her hands to twine them around his neck. “I never stop wanting you.”  
He kissed her then, long and deep, exciting them both. She moved her hands, laying them under his jacket, and pressing it off his shoulders. He let it drop behind them and moved his own hands to cup her breasts, rubbing them lightly as she worked on the buttons of his shirt. She got the last one free, and the shirt joined the jacket on the floor.   
Irene pressed herself to him, and he shifted his hands to grip her firm bottom, kneading it firmly as she worked her hands between them to free him from his pants. She shoved his trousers and boxers down in one movement so she could touch him. His penis sprang free, and he let out a gutterral hum as she gave it a long, firm stroke. He made no resistance as she pushed him back toward the wall so he could lean against it while she dropped to her own knees, and took him into her mouth.  
His short pants told her how much he liked it when she did this, licking him in long strokes, trying to swallow him as the tip of his penis touched the back of her throat. Before he could come, however, he was pushing her away, lifting her up and pushing her back on the bed. He lifted her nightgown, pushing it up past her hips, spreading her wide so that he could taste her. Using tongue and lips he drove her up, up, until she was screaming with the pleasure of it, quaking under his tongue. Sherlock lifted himself up and entered her then, with one, long stroke. She moaned his name as he filled her, and his mouth latched onto her neck as he rode her, filling her over and over as she came again. He was close to climaxing himself, but he wanted her to have one more. “One more, darling,” he whispered in her ear. “One more.”  
“Oh, God, Sherlock, I ...Ohhhhh.”  
He felt her bunch under him again, and when she came, he let himself go. They rocked together for a few more minutes, and he collapsed on top of her.  Their breath came in pants, but her hands, which had been fisted in their bedcovers, came up to hold him tightly.   
“I love you,” she whispered.  
“I love you, too,” he whispered back.  
…  
Mary let them into her home, flipping on lights as she entered the foyer. “I wonder what happened to my uncle?”  
To John’s semi-trained eye, it looked as though Masters had left almost as soon as they had the night before, and he hadn’t been back. He moved the boxes back into the hall, where Mary told him to leave them. “I’ll put them away later.”  
“Right,” he said. “Where would you like me to put my things?”  
Mary looked at him for a long moment. “Guest room, sofa, or …”  
“...or?”  
“Would you like to share my room?” Mary asked him, shyly. “I’m not in the habit of asking men to stay with me, but, John, I feel something for you. And, well, it might be easier to protect me if you’re in the same room with me.”  
“True,” John said, nervously. “I can kip on the floor in your room if you’d like.”  
Mary shook her head. “John, to be clear, I am inviting you to share my bed.” She took a deep breath. “If you want to.”  
John dropped the bag he was holding onto the floor. He stepped to her, and giving her plenty of time to back away, dropped his lips to hers.  
The kiss started slowly, gently, her hesitation at what she was feeling clear as he deepened the kiss, teasing her lips apart with his tongue. At that invasion, she stiffened, for just a second, and he stopped--until she added her tongue to his, and he thought he’d go mad.  
They kissed for several minutes, trying out different angles, until John was so hard he thought he’d burst, and Mary’s mouth was swollen.   
“John, let’s go up,” she said quietly. She took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom, motioning him into the room before she locked the door. She turned to him. “I’m not completely inexperienced, John, but I want you to know I don’t just throw myself at every man in my path.”  
“Didn’t think you did, Mary. I’m honored you’ve invited me here,” John said sincerely. “When I saw you yesterday, you took my breath away. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I’ve never believed in love at first sight, but …”  
“But there it is,” Mary said wonderingly. “I feel it, too.”  
“Maybe we met in a past life,” John said fancifully, “because I feel as if I’ve known you, and loved you, forever.”  
“Oh, John,” Mary whispered, and she took his hand, drawing him to her bed. “I love you, too.”  
He kissed her again, taking his time. Then, with his eyes on hers, John moved his hands to the top buttons of her blouse. He unbuttoned them, one button at a time, his hands moving against her skin in a way that made her feel hot, and randy. He pushed her shirt off of her shoulders, and she pulled his hands to her small breasts, clad in a simple cotton bra that charmed him. He cupped her breasts, tracing their contours with his fingers. “You’re so beautiful,” he said.   
Mary smiled at him, then reached up herself to push his jacket off his shoulders. He helped her, then shed the revolting Christmas jumper his sister had given him for Christmas with one movement, exposing his naked chest to her for the first time. Her eyes flew to the scarring in his left shoulder. “John?” Mary reached out to trace it. “What happened?”  
He shrugged diffidently. “Got shot in Afghanistan. I’m well now, though.”  
Mary’s eyes filled. How close she had come to never knowing this man! She leaned forward and kissed his scar, then slipped off her bra and pressed her naked breasts to his naked chest.  
The sensation made them both sigh, and John backed her the bed, sweeping her off her feet at the last, and laying her gently in the center of it. She looked up at him trustingly, and he kicked off his shoes to lay next to her. He kissed her again, then moved his lips to her breasts, suckling them gently as she began to move under him.  
He found, as he feasted on her skin, that he had no problem keeping himself in check, for her. He wanted to rip off all her clothes and pound himself into her.  
But this was their first time, and he wanted something a little different for them both to remember.   
Mary ran her hands along his shoulders and back as he licked and sucked her breasts, her breathing speeding up. “John, please,” she said. “More.”  
He moved up to kiss her again, and slipped back down to undo the button at the top of her trousers. He unzipped her, slowly, then slipped a hand down the front of her panties to cup her. “Trust me,” he whispered, with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m a doctor.”  
She giggled, and the giggle turned into a moan as his fingers found the sensitive nub at the top of her cleft. He stroked it slowly, watching her face as her pleasure mounted. He continued to stroke her as she tensed, then quaked with a low moan. He smiled, kissed her again, then stood up. He unfastened his belt and dropped his trousers, then pushed his briefs off his hips to land on the floor next to them. Mary’s eyes widened at the size of him. “Wow,” she said.   
“Thanks,” he said shyly. “It’s why I’ve learned to, er, soften you up first.”  
Mary giggled. “I think I appreciate that.” She lifted her hips and slid her trousers and panties off, and spread herself in front of him. “Bring him over here.”  
“Wait,” John said, cursing himself for leaving the duffle downstairs. “Do you have something we can use for birth control?”  
“I’m on the pill to regulate my periods,” Mary said softly. “We don’t need to worry about that. And I’m healthy.”  
“Me, too.” He sat on the bed next to her. “Are you sure?”  
She stretched. “Very.”  
John rolled on top of her, and met her lips with hers. He kept up the long, drugging kisses as his hands moved between them, bending one of her legs back to expose her opening. He guided himself into her, pressing in slowly, knowing his size and her potential limits. But to his surprise, she accepted all of him. His eyes rolled back into his head as he felt her tightness contract around him, and stayed there for a second, catching his breath.  
“Oh, John.....” Mary moaned.  
He moved, and she moved with him. They moved together more and more quickly, until she quaked under him again and he let himself go.  
…  
Sherlock and Irene, cuddled in bed together, were playing a game of 20 Questions.  
“Hmmm....” Sherlock said. “Is it the werewolf from the television show ‘Being Human’?”  
“Ah, you got it,” Irene said. “Thought you didn’t know much in the way of telly?”  
“Well, I sort of sneak in a look now and then,” Sherlock said. “Ever since that Connie Prince thing. Oh, and well, you. Had I been a little more connected with the outside world, I might have known who you were before I went to your house and been assaulted by your gorgeous breasts.”  
“I did wave them in your face a bit, didn’t I?”  
“You did. I thought I might have apoplexy.”  
“You covered it very well, darling. I didn’t think I was having an impact at all.”  
“Oh, no, you definitely had an impact.” Sherlock laid a hand on her right breast and massaged it gently. She closed her eyes and hummed. “I thought business would be seriously affected. And those texts! Every time I heard that alert, little Sherlock jumped.”  
Irene laughed, a low throaty sound. “That was the idea.”  
“I gathered. And yet I let it torture me.” He shook his head. “I really am a glutton for punishment.”  
“Now that thought takes me back,” Irene purred. “Wonder where I put my riding crop?”  
“Mine is in the closet.”  
Irene opened her eyes to look into his. “You have a riding crop?”  
“I mostly beat dead people with it, but you never know when it will come in handy.”  
“I’m really not sure what to say to that, darling.” Irene rolled her eyes.  
“Rest assured that your very existence tortures me--in a good way--and we’ll leave the riding crop where it is.”  
“For now.” She closed her eyes again, enjoying the feel of his hands on her.   
“Have you booked your spa treatments yet?” Sherlock asked, switching to her left breast.  
“Mmm...no. Haven’t had time. I’ll call tomorrow. Your massage feels very good. They’re so tender,” Irene said. “I don’t think I was prepared for all the things that go along with pregnancy.”  
“I wasn’t prepared at all,” Sherlock commented, “and I’m feeling woefully behind in my learning.”  
“We should see about some sort of class or something,” Irene added. “But the massage definitely helps the tenderness in my breasts.”  
“Well it does have curious side effects.”  
“Sherlock, again? Really?”  
“Not if you don’t want to.”  
Irene laughed helplessly. “I don’t even know what to say.”  
“John said the endorphins would be good for you, if you were up to it.”  
“Well, then, who am I to contradict the doctor? Still, I think you might need to work a bit harder on giving me those endorphins, darling.”  
“I’ll do my best.”  
…  
John wrapped Mary in his arms. They were bundled under the covers, now, talking in low voices about their lives, their interests, their plans for the future.   
“I’d quite like to set up a practice again,” John said. “I’m qualified as a G.P. and as a forensic pathologist. For now, I’m continuing to work at the teaching hospital. It’s steady work, with good pay.”  
“I love my job,” Mary said. “The children at the Bridge school make me laugh. They need me.”  
John heard a noise from downstairs, and he slipped out bed to draw his trousers on. He dug through his jacket pockets for his revolver and his phone. “Here, Mary,” he said, handing her the phone. “DI Lestrade is speed dial three. If I’m not back in five minutes, call him and report a break in. I’m going to go check this out.”  
Mary sat up so quickly the blankets fell, exposing her breasts. “Be careful, John.”  
His gaze lingered on her for a second more, then he shook it off. “I will. Might want to put something on, though, Mary. You’re distracting.”  
Mary glanced down at herself and blushed. “Oh, yes.” She jumped up and rummaged through her dresser for a t-shirt and shorts.  
John slipped out her door, and he saw a light on downstairs. He stepped back into Mary’s room. “Mary, does anyone else have a key to that door?”  
“No, John.”  
“Call Lestrade.” Saying nothing else, he slipped back out the door and quietly made his way down the stairs, his revolver at the ready in his right hand. Noiselessly he approached the front room, listening. Now that he was closer, he could hear the sounds of smashing glass. John glanced around the corner, and he saw two men he didn’t know dragging books off her cases, smashing her figurines, and destroying her pictures.  
They could only be looking for the gems.  
Where was Mary’s uncle?  
John decided to wait, watching them destroy the room. He’d keep them there with his revolver, if necessary, but the more destruction they caused, the more charges piled up on them. Breaking and entering, reckless destruction of property. If he had to, John thought, he’d let them add assault to their list, but the wisest course was probably to wait for --  
\--there they were, the bubble lights that signified “police.”  
John made his way noiselessly to the front door, which was wide open, tucked his revolver into the back of his waistband, and gestured to the lead car. Lestrade’s tall form made its way up the stairs, and he, too, listened noiselessly to the mayhem being caused inside Mary’s front parlor. John whispered, “Mary’s upstairs. I’ll go and see to her. You’ve got it from here?”  
Lestrade nodded grimly, raised a hand to his officers, and they swarmed the house in a rush. John made his way up the stairs to Mary’s room as shouts of “Police!” buzzed through the air, and the smashing stopped.  
“John? Who is it?”  
John busily put his revolver under her bed and shrugged on his jumper. “I’m guessing it’s those ruffians you and your uncle talked about. No sign of your uncle though, I’m afraid. Come down and meet DI Lestrade.”  
Mary ran a brush through her hair, then put it in a ponytail and took John’s hand. Together, they went downstairs to find the ruffians in handcuffs and the police taking pictures.   
“Greg?” John got his attention. “This is Mary Morstan, the homeowner, and our client. Well, technically, her uncle’s our client, but we haven’t seen him since he engaged us.”  
“How do you do, Detective Inspector?” Mary held her hand out to Lestrade, and he took it.   
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Morstan. So what’s this all about?”  
“These boys are likely after a treasure they think Miss Morstan has here, but they’re wrong. They threatened her life, so Sherlock sent me along to keep her out of trouble in case they tried anything.”  
“Good thing, too, Miss Morstan, or this could have been a lot worse,” Lestrade said, observing that the pair looked to be a little closer than a straightforward client-detective relationship would suggest.   
“Yes, I’m very grateful John was here,” Mary said, glancing adoringly at John.  
“Hm. Yes, well, we’ll round these boys up and put out an alert to find your uncle. What’s his name?”  
“James Masters. He’s a barrister --”  
“--in South London?”  
“Why, yes.” Mary looked concerned. “You know him?”  
Lestrade closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, John knew the news wasn’t good. “I’m sorry to tell you, Miss Morstan, but your uncle was pulled out of the Thames this morning. He’s dead. And judging by what you’ve told me, this lot we’re arresting here might be our best lead on his murder.”  
“We didn’t murder no one,” the larger man shouted. “S’not our fault he was drunk and fell in the river when we were talking to him.”  
“I have to inform you that anything you say now could be used against you,” Lestrade said sternly.  
“But we didn’t do anything! All we wanted was to know where the treasure was! Not our fault he fell!”  
“All right, well, take them away, Donovan,” Lestrade directed. “Miss Morstan, we’ll continue this investigation, but as far as I can see, this is a police matter now. I’m sure Dr. Watson would concur.”  
“Right.” John looked concernedly at Mary. “We’ll consult with Sherlock again in the morning, Mary, but I think this is probably over.”  
Mary took a deep breath, held it a second, then let it out. “That’s that, then.”  
“I’ll just text Sherlock and let him know what’s up,” John said. “I’ll stay and help you clean up, shall I?”  
“We’ll give you clearance for that as soon as the pictures are taken,” Lestrade said.  
John entered at text into his phone: Idiots appeared and smashed up her front parlor. Lestrade arrested them. Uncle is dead; idiots more or less confessed. Directions?  
…  
Sherlock, still gasping for air, having successfully helped Irene get at least three more loads of endorphins into her system, jumped when his text alert beeped, signalling a message from John.   
“I don’t think I can pick my arm up from the bed,” he mumbled.   
Irene, displaying a complete lack of muscle control, said, “Don’t look at me. I’m in a puddle of endorphins over here.”  
He snorted a laugh, and flipped off of her and onto his back. “Success,” he wheezed, and reached out for his phone. He focused on the screen, then said, “Again, success.”  
“What? Did something happen?”  
“Oh, yes. Though it seems we lost our original client. The two who threatened Mary’s life were caught in the act of vandalizing her front parlor, looking for treasure, I presume. Apparently they’ve confessed to killing Mary’s uncle in some fashion, as well. John wants directions.”  
“Tell him to stay put. Mary will need him in the morning.”  
“I was just thinking that.” Stay where you are. Will meet you there in the morning. SH  
“There,” Sherlock set his phone down, “I’ll go over there in the morning. Haven’t been yet. Feel a bit lazy in that fashion.”  
“You’ve had multiple mysteries to solve over the last two days, Sherlock. The mystery of the treasure, the mystery of my complicated pregnancy, the mystery of how to have a relationship and do your job.”  
“The mystery of whether I could continue to enjoy my favorite new pastime without hurting my fiance or our child.”  
Irene tilted her head to look at him. “Were you really worried about that?”  
Sherlock shrugged. “Yes.”  
“Poor man,” Irene patted his hand, the only part of him she could reach without moving. “You need to get better about communicating your worries, dear.”  
“You, too,” Sherlock said pointedly.  
“Well, then, as I said once before, we’re both defrocked.” Irene yawned. “I should get up and go to the loo, but I can’t seem to move.”  
“Sleep a bit,” Sherlock said. He curved his hand over hers and squeezed it. “I’ll get the light.”  
…  
When Sherlock joined John and Mary at Mary’s home the next morning, he’d already x-rayed the rest of the stuffed animals. As Mary served tea in her kitchen, Sherlock pulled out six additional bags of gems.  
“Altogether, Michele estimates with the right buyers, you have a million pounds in gems here,” Sherlock said. “You’ll want to get a lawyer to determine their legal status--you know, whether you’re allowed to keep them.”  
John cleared his throat. “I hate to tell you this, Mary, but the rules are very clear about looting in the Army. If caught, soldiers face court martial and the loot is confiscated. I don’t believe there’s a statute of limitations, and although the court martial won’t be possible, I’m fairly certain the gems will be claimed by the British government.”  
Sherlock thought for a second. “As these gems are the motive for your uncle’s murder, I don’t suppose we can cover up their existence. If you want the men responsible for his death punished, that is.”  
Mary pushed herself up from the table and went to her kitchen window to look out. “My uncle wasn’t a particularly good man, but he did his best by me,” she said softly. “We need to bring his killers to justice. I was fine before I knew of the gems’ existence.” She turned back to face Sherlock and John. “And I’m better now, not for having them, but for knowing you.”  
John rose and went to her, taking her hands. “Without these, we might never have met,” he said.  
“And Afghanistan took my father, and nearly took the man I love before I even knew him,” Mary said passionately. “They can have their bloody gems.”  
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, then, John, I’d suggest you call Mycroft. You and Mary can turn in the gems together, and perhaps there’s something he can do about compensation. One never knows.”  
John and Mary smiled at each other.   
Sherlock thought they might be planning another wedding soon.  
Meanwhile, he and the Woman had to get back to planning theirs.  
…  
“Oh, Una, do you think it’s too much for a day wedding?” Irene turned in front of the full-length mirror at Bridal Indulgences.  
“Oh, no, dear. It’s just lovely.” Mrs. Hudson beamed as she fussed with the train of the silver bridal gown. “I think it’s perfect for a New Year’s Day wedding!”  
Irene looked at herself in the three-way mirror. The floor-length gown, constructed of silver silk shantung, flowed in a gentle sheath from pleats caught just under her breasts. The halter bodice exposed her shoulders and showed off the new fullness of her breasts, leaving her back bare. A silver lace wrap would drape over her arms, and she would wear Sherlock’s mother’s pearls. “Something old, something new.” She murmured.  
“Yes, and I’d like to lend you these, dear,” Una said, handing her a small box. Inside, Irene saw silver, sapphire and pearl earrings. “Something borrowed AND something blue.”  
“Oh, they’re just perfect,” Irene breathed.   
“I think you ought to wear your hair up, Michele. It will show off your neck and the earrings perfectly.”  
Irene thought for a second. Not for worlds did she want to wear her dominatrix hair. But maybe … “I could have it braided and looped up.”  
“Oh, that would be lovely indeed,” Mrs. Hudson said.   
“It’s just going to be a small ceremony, but I want to look perfect,” Irene continued. “As perfect as I can make it, anyway.”  
“Well, you look lovely. And I’ve seen Sherlock in his tuxedo. Do you know that Mycroft talked him into buying one? It’s black. I’ve told him your dress is silver, so I think he’s gone with silver trimmings.”  
Irene smiled her sparkling smile. “I can’t wait to see him. I can’t wait to marry him.”  
“You’re a beautiful couple, Michele. I wish you both the best of everything. Now, let’s get you back into your street clothes and lay this away for the big day.”  
They chattered excitedly as their purchases were rung up, bagged up, and sent off to Baker Street.  
“Do you really want to move across the street?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “I was rather looking forward to a baby in the house.”  
Irene squeezed her hand as they approached the taxi stand. “I just think it’d be a bit crowded. And with bodies in hallways and danger around strange corners, I think perhaps it’s not the safest place to raise a child. It would be good to separate Sherlock’s business from our family life, as much as it’s possible, anyway.”  
“Well, I see your point, Michele, but why not buy me out?”  
“Buy you out?” Irene looked at her, surprised. “Why would you want us to do that?”  
“Well, I’ve been thinking about moving someplace warm, retiring to the south of France, maybe. Or the Canaries. It’s my hip.” Mrs. Hudson got into the next waiting cab, and Irene slid in next to her. “If I retired, and sold to you, you’d have the entire house. Sherlock could work out of 221C, you could live in 221B, and you could have my flat at 221A for your office.”  
“Herrods, please.” Irene thought a moment. “I don’t know what Sherlock would say to your leaving, Mrs. Hudson. And truthfully, I had hoped you would help with the baby. I’m not at all sure I know what to do.”  
Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Never having had any of my own, dear, I don’t know what to tell you. But you could keep my bedroom for me, maybe. I’m sure I’ll get tired of the sunshine eventually.”  
“We’ll think about it,” Irene said. They approached Herrods, and Irene paid the driver. They got out. Today, Irene wore trainers and a lighter weight coat, and they’d taken multiple breaks. So far, so good. She was going to take one more crack at the maternity department.  
…  
Sherlock arrived at Baker Street to find a delivery driver with a pile of boxes on the sidewalk. Bridal Indulgences. He grinned. “For 221B?”  
“Yes, sir,” the driver held out a clipboard. “Sign here.”   
Sherlock signed, then opened the front door and gestured to the driver, who rolled the boxes in and up the stairs on a dolly.”  
“The top box has a note, sir, if you’re Sherlock Holmes.”  
“I am.”  
The delivery driver neatly piled the boxes on the floor of the living area of 221B. “Here you are, sir.”  
He handed Sherlock the note, and Sherlock tipped him. Cream linen stock. Fine weave. Ball point pen. The Woman’s handwriting. He opened the note, and read:  
Dearest Sherlock,  
If you love me, do NOT even look at these boxes. You’re clever enough to know they’re from the bridal store, but I want you to be surprised on our big day, so NO DEDUCTING.   
I love you.  
TW  
Sherlock laughed out loud. “Fine, then, if you want to play that way.” He took off his coat and scarf, resolutely not looking at the boxes, and headed down to 221C to play with his chemistry set.  
A half hour later, the door buzzed again. As the only human being in the entire place, Sherlock felt obligated to answer the door. It was yet another delivery for 221B. Herrods.  
“Good God, did she buy out the store?”   
The driver smirked. “They always do, don’t they? Sign here.”  
Sherlock signed, and the driver took another stack of boxes up to 221B. As he came back down the stairs, he handed Sherlock another note. “Assuming you’re Mr. Holmes. The Mrs. seems to be having quite a fun day of it.” With a chuckle, the driver went out the door, and Sherlock looked at the second note.  
Dearest Sherlock,  
By now you’re frustrated with the number of boxes and, no doubt, by the constant interruption of your work. It will be worth the wait. I bought more black lace.  
DO NOT PEEK. NO DEDUCTING.  
I love you.  
TW  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, then started wondering what black lace item she might have purchased. He was tempted to go up and look, but that would be playing her game.  
He went back downstairs to his chemistry set. Just as he was finding good results in a study of whether frozen blood would work as well as fresh in a coagulation experiment, the buzzer rang again.  
He was tempted to ignore it, but the Woman’s note about the black lace kept him from being completely rude to the newest delivery driver. Private Fantasies? His imagination ran wild as he signed for the delivery, and took from the driver not only a box, but a padded envelope addressed directly to him.  
Sherlock opened the envelope to find a note and some kind of fabric. He opened the note first.  
Incentive not to peek.  
TW  
Curious, he pulled out the fabric and saw that it unfolded itself into a very, very skimpy blue teddy.  
Who cared about blood coagulation experiments?  
Sherlock ran up the stairs with the latest box, set it on the living area floor without looking at it, and strode back to their bedroom to lay the skimpy teddy out on their bed. He looked forward to seeing her wear it. And taking it off of her.  
Relentless tease that she was.   
He went back down to 221C to finish his experiment, and to put away his notes. Just as he finished the final measurement, the buzzer rang again.  
He rolled his eyes, turned out the lights on 221C, and went back up to answer the door, only to find a laughing Irene and Mrs. Hudson waiting for him.  
“We thought we’d surprise you, this time. With the number of deliveries you’ve taken for me today, I was certain you were getting frustrated,” Irene said, kissing his cheek.   
“Oh, what a fun day,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Now I’m off to put my feet up with a cuppa. You young people enjoy your tea.” She headed to her own flat, and shut the door behind her.  
Sherlock spun Irene around from the door and kissed her thoroughly. “You have driven me mad all afternoon, Woman.”  
“I know it, Sherlock.” Irene kissed him back with enthusiasm. “But it will all be quite worth it, trust me.”  
“The funny thing is, I do,” he said, musingly. He tucked her hand in his arm and walked her upstairs. “I have not peeked, as instructed, and expect to be rewarded by the sight of you in that blue teddy as soon as is physically possible.”  
“It has been a good day, Sherlock,” Irene said. “You’ll have gathered that I bought several things for this weekend, but it stops there for now. We have one last delivery coming …” The buzzer sounded. “And there it is. Could you please get that? I’m going to put some of these things away in our closet.”  
Resignedly, Sherlock headed back down the stairs one more time to find another Herrods delivery driver. “What now?” he asked.  
“I believe you have everything you need for high tea here, sir. Fresh from the restaurant. Although your missus ordered herbal teas. Must be expectin’.”  
Sherlock paused in the act of signing the delivery slip. “How did you know that?”  
“Me own wife was the same. Had to have herbal teas. She found that the raspberry one was the best for the carryin’. Well, here you are, sir, and enjoy your tea.”  
“Thanks,” Sherlock said, bemusedly wondering if there was a secret club for expectant fathers, and how he might go about finding it.  
He trod slowly up the stairs, turning that thought over in his mind, and saw that Irene had speedily moved certain of the boxes into hiding. A few remained in the living room, but they clearly were safe for him to see. He brought the delivery bags into the kitchen, then laid the table for tea. He knew how. All good English men did.  
Once the table was set--he could hear Irene rustling around in their bedroom--Sherlock opened the bag. Two variety packs of herbal teas in bags. One of a loose herbal tea, that, when sniffed yielded the scent of raspberry and orange. Ah, the raspberry one that was good for expectant mothers. Sherlock started the kettle.  
He turned back to the bag, and drew out two cream pastries, which he placed one on either plate. Underneath those, two cardboard boxes contained assorted tea sandwiches. Sherlock set those out, too.  
In the other bag, he found a container of fresh strawberries and another of whipped cream. He set those on the table as they were, because he wasn’t certain what they had to do with tea, but he WAS certain that the Woman had a plan for them.  
Sherlock stepped back to their bedroom door, and seeing it shut, tapped on it. “Tea’s ready. Kettle’s just boiling now.”  
“Go ahead and pour out. I’ll be right along,” she said through the door.  
Curiouser and curiouser, he thought. Clearly she has something planned, but what?  
Then he remembered the note. NO DEDUCTING.  
Fine. But it wasn’t like he could turn it on and off like a tap.  
He poured some of the just-boiled water into the teapot to warm it, then poured it out. He added four tablespoons of the loose raspberry tea, then added water to steep, setting the timer for three minutes. He set the tea strainer over Irene’s cup, then took the seat at the table that had him facing their bedroom. He didn’t want to miss a thing.  
Irene came out wearing the emerald green robe that John had given her for Christmas. Mildly disappointed--he’d been promised skimpy blue things--he poured out her tea, then his, and gestured to the seat opposite him. “This looks lovely, Irene. Thanks for thinking of it,” he said.  
“Thanks for putting it out,” Irene replied, and sat across from him. She smiled her sparkling smile. “I had so much fun today!”  
He listened as she detailed the stops she and Mrs. Hudson had made, being careful not to tell him what was purchased or precisely where. He could guess, but he was under orders. They drank hot raspberry tea, ate their tea sandwiches, and finally nibbled on the cream pastries.   
“I don’t know when I last had high tea,” Irene said, “but it looked so wonderful at Herrods I had to have it sent round for us to share.”  
“What about the strawberries and cream?” Sherlock asked.  
“Oh, that’s for later. Much later. I have plans for you, darling, that include whipped cream and riding crops.”  
His inner Sherlock shouted for joy, and his penis twitched. “Can’t wait.”  
“Yes, well, later.” She nudged her robe off one shoulder to reveal a skimpy blue strap. “We need to do dishes. Where’s John tonight?”  
“He and Mary are settled in connubial bliss in her house, I believe,” Sherlock said with a grin. “Unless I am greatly mistaken, they seem to have settled things between them last night in a very satisfactory way. John looked more content than I’ve ever seen him.”  
“Good for them,” Irene said. “I like to see a happy couple. And Mary’s gorgeous. If I weren’t happily engaged myself, I’d make a play for her.”  
The thought brought a little jealousy to Sherlock’s heart, but he ignored it. After all, Irene was happily engaged to him. And happy for John and Mary. “Hmm. I believe you mentioned whipped cream and riding crops?”  
“Dishes first, darling.” She let the robe slip a little further as she cleared the table, offering Sherlock a top view of her luscious breasts, encased in skimpy blue fabric. Obediently, he handwashed the tea dishes while she dried. When they were finished, she batted her eyes at him. “Pick up the whipped cream, Sherlock, and follow me.”  
He picked up the whipped cream, and followed her. What else to do? As he entered their bedroom, his eyes had to adjust to the dimness that went with the soft glow of candlelight. She lit several candles, on top of the dresser and the endtable.  
“Do you remember a game I tried to play with you, early on in Paris, Sherlock? I touch you, but you can’t touch me til I say?”  
Sherlock grinned. “I do. I also remember that you didn’t last very long.”   
Irene let her hair spill from its bun, and picked up the riding crop she’d had on the bed. “I think I can safely outlast you this time.”  
“Ah, so it’s both a game and a challenge,” Sherlock said.   
Irene nodded regally. “Want to play?” She cracked the whip.   
He set down the whipped cream on the end table and went to her. “Why not?”  
She kissed him, gently, then pushed him back on the bed. “If at any time you want me to stop, simply say ‘stop’. And to ensure you don’t touch me until I say you may, you’ll wear these.” She pulled out a pair of padded handcuffs. Irene handed them to Sherlock. “Wait a minute, though.” She locked their door. “Just in case.” She turned back to him, then unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders and pulling it off over his arms. She tossed it in the hamper. Turning back to Sherlock, she picked up the handcuffs and dangled them from one hand. “I know you could get yourself out of these easily enough, but play the game well, and you’ll be out eventually.”  
Mutely, he held out his hands. She slipped one handcuff over his left hand, and the other over his right, clasping them both. A length of silken rope about a foot long separated the cuffs. She pushed him over and rolled him onto his belly, his hands trapped underneath him.   
“It’s all about sensation, Sherlock. Pleasure. It’s not supposed to hurt at all, unless you want it to. All you have to do is tell me to stop. Tell me what you like.”  
“I like having my hands on you,” Sherlock said.  
“You’ll get what you want before the night is over, I’m sure.” Irene said. “Now, listen.”  
He heard her robe drop to the floor, and he heard her crack the whip again. It didn’t touch his skin, but the thought that it might both tormented and teased him. “Feel,” she said. He felt the tip of the riding crop traced across the top of his shoulders, down the center of his back, and over his clothed buttocks. Unexpectedly, he found himself going hard. Her game, he reminded himself, and clenched his hands in their handcuffs, suddenly now seeing their utility in her game.   
Irene cracked the whip again, then lightly tapped his clothed buttocks with it. “Do you want more of that, darling? Shall I do that again? Tell me what you want.”  
Sherlock found the thought of her wielding the riding crop on his behind both ridiculous and erotic. “I want you to show me more, Woman.”   
Irene lightly tapped the crop along his lower back and shoulders, then made it whistle as she dealt his bottom a light blow. There was no pain, Sherlock discovered. But the thought of the brutality was enough to arouse. “Again, Woman,” he asked quietly. She brought it down on his bottom again, and his muscles clenched against the pain and pleasure of it. He wondered what it would feel like on his bare skin.  
“Tell me what you want, Sherlock,” she said breathily.  
“I want to be naked.”  
Irene used the crop as a prod to roll him over, then traced his pectoral muscles with the crop, adding visual stimulus to the sensations he was feeling. She wore the blue skimpy teddy, and it barely covered everything. She ran the crop through her hands, and set it whistling. With a flick of her wrist, the button of his trousers went flying. “OK, that’s a little close for comfort, Irene.”  
She only smiled, then reached forward to unzip him, pushing his pants down, then pulling them off the rest of his body. Irene left his boxers on him, and used the riding crop to trace the contours of his thighs. She traced his legs, down to the bottoms of his feet, and made him chuckle involuntarily as she traced the bottoms of his feet. “Woman,” he growled warningly.  
Irene laughed again, and set the riding crop aside. She reached for the whipped cream, and dipped a finger into it. She laid the cream on his right nipple, then leaned down to lick it off. She dipped again, laid the cream on his left nipple, and licked it off. He twitched again. “Tell me what you want, Sherlock.”  
“I want you, Woman.”  
“Not just yet,” Irene said quietly, then rolled him back over on his belly. She worked his shorts off him, and she saw the two slightly welts on his bottom. “I need to tend these.” Irene spread whipped cream on his buttocks where the riding crop had left its mark, then bent to lick it off, her breasts grazing his hamstrings as she lingered over the cream.   
He thought he might die if he didn’t get his hands on her soon.  
“I’ve wanted to bite this ass for a long, long, time, Sherlock.” Irene spread more whipped cream on his butt, then licked it off, nibbling along the way. She heard him growl again, and knew he was near his breaking point.   
Maybe that’s enough for this time, she thought. Irene felt wet, and hot, and ready, herself. She helped him flip over again, and this time, she spread the whipped cream along the length of his erect penis. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Irene,” Sherlock said softly, already straining for control.   
“Trust me, darling,” she said, and took him into her mouth, sucking off the whipped cream. His hands clenched in their cuffs with the effort of not touching her. She sucked harder, getting all of the cream off of him, and then abruptly stopped.   
“Well, that’s it, I’m afraid,” Irene said slyly.   
He was helpless, straining, fighting for control but sitting on the brink. He could say nothing.  
And then Irene turned back round and freed his hands.  
She was on her back in a flash, and he ripped the crotch panel of the teddy open so he could plunge himself inside her. She gasped with the pleasure of it, and rode it out as he completely lost control, plunging inside her again and again as she peaked and climaxed, and he did the same.  
…  
John came into the flat whistling the next morning, but heard nothing from Sherlock or Irene. John saw the dishes done after tea, saw the boxes from Herrods in the living room, and saw Sherlock’s coat and jacket tossed aside in the kitchen. John followed the trail of clothes to their bedroom door, and since it ended there, he had to assume they were inside. Presumably sleeping.  
Well, it looked like they’d made good use of their night alone at home, John thought.  
He grinned to himself. He’d made good use of his night with Mary, too, hadn’t he?  
They’d contacted Mycroft, who had, with some regret, confiscated the gems. Mycroft had, however, managed to secure a finder’s fee for the loot, of 10 percent of their value, from the British government. The fee, 100,000 pounds, would be deposited in Mary’s bank account within the week.   
It would leave her well set if she were careful. Joined to John, they’d be very well set indeed, and ready to marry.  
Marry. John never thought to marry. There were so many women in the world to enjoy. But inside, he’d always hoped to find the right woman, the one he could settle down with. Raise a family with.  
Sherlock had beaten him to that, too.  
A New Years’ Day wedding. Hadn’t seen that one coming.  
He had two tuxes in his closet upstairs, waiting for Sunday. The rings were in his top drawer--next to the condoms--and he’d planned a nice dinner for Saturday night, with Mary’s help, as a groom’s dinner. They’d go to a nice restaurant, the six of them: Sherlock and Irene, Mary and John, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. It would be a very small wedding, too. The only additional guests would be Lestrade and his wife, Mike Stamford and his wife, and Molly Hooper.  
The wedding itself would take place at 11 a.m. New Year’s Day in a side chapel of Westminster Abbey, by special invitation of the Queen, an old friend of the Holmes family. The dean would officiate, and a luncheon reception would take place at the nearby National Gallery of Art, in the tea room. It would be small, but Irene had planned a lovely New Year’s lunch, for luck and for love. The cake, prepared by the bakers at the tea room, also would be small, covered in silver and gold leaf, again, for good luck.   
And Mary would be coming.  
Would it be too soon to ask her to marry him?  
John heard Sherlock’s bedroom door open, and he hastily went into the living area and flipped on the telly, making a great deal of noise as he did so, just in case.   
But it was Sherlock, in a battered dressing gown, heading into the kitchen to start the kettle boiling. He grunted at John, grabbed a packet of biscuits, and headed back to his room.  
Irene must be hungry again this morning. Good sign.  
John absently flipped through channels. Mary had to go back to work this morning and prepare lessons for the next week, or he’d still be there. His own classes didn’t start back up again until next week.   
He heard the door open again, and he saw Sherlock come back into the kitchen, rummage through a packet of tea bags, drop one in a cup, and add hot water. Then he stumbled back into his bedroom and closed the door.  
Hot herbal tea. Good idea.  
John’s thoughts returned to Mary. She asked him to move in with her this morning.  
Shouldn’t there be a marriage proposal, at least, before there was cohabitation?  
The door opened a third time, and Sherlock came out with the empty biscuit packet, tossed in the trash, picked up the paper and settled himself in the chair opposite John’s with a yawn.  
“Morning,” John said.   
Sherlock grunted.   
“Irene feeling better in the mornings?”  
“Yes.”  
“You seem awfully grumpy for someone who clearly had an entertaining evening with the woman he loves,” John observed.  
“I am not grumpy,” Sherlock said definitively. “I’m only tired.”  
“Yeah, well, me, too.”  
Sherlock gave a half-smile. “I wondered.”  
“I love her, Sherlock.”  
“Lightning struck. Saw it in both of you the first time I saw you both together. Good for you.” Sherlock turned to his paper. “I like her. She’s not weak.”  
John smiled to himself. “No, that she’s not. Mycroft took the gems with apologies, and offered a finder’s fee, which she accepted. She’ll be even more well set to do the work she loves. I’ve classes starting again next week.” John paused. “She’s asked if I’d like to move in with her.”  
That got Sherlock’s attention. He lowered the paper. “Did you accept?”  
“I wanted to talk it over with you, first. I know that you and Irene are well set, but I don’t want to leave you in the lurch with the rent if I leave. And what about the cases?”  
Sherlock waved that away. “I know where to find you when I need you. And as it happens, we were talking about buying the place across the street so we’d have room for Irene’s office and the baby. But if you move out …” Sherlock trailed off, thinking. “Baby could have your room.”  
“And,” Irene said, moving through the kitchen toward them. “Mrs. Hudson has offered to let us buy her out. If we did that, I could use her flat as my office space.”  
“Wait, what? Mrs. Hudson wants to move?” Sherlock frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”  
Irene smiled at him. “She wants to retire to somewhere warm, for her hip. She’d expect us to keep her room for her, though, as she wants to return and spoil our child as much as she’s able.”  
“Who’d do the housekeeping?” Sherlock asked. And mend my socks and clean up my experiments, he didn’t say.  
“We’d hire a service, Sherlock.” Irene patted his shoulder. “And Mrs. Hudson would be here as often as she liked.”  
Sherlock steepled. “What do you think?”  
“Well, it would save us the trouble of moving. You wouldn’t need to change the address on your business cards. Do you have business cards? At any rate, Holmes and 221B are fairly synonymous in London, so you’d be able to keep that connection. I think it would be cheaper than paying rent here and a mortgage there, too.” Irene moved his paper and sat in his lap. “Shall we pursue it with Mrs. Hudson?”  
“Are you really moving out, John?”  
“I think I will, yes, if it’s not a hardship for you. Mary and I want to be together.”  
Irene smiled warmly at him. “I’m very happy for the two of you.”  
“That reminds me, I’ve got reservations for six at  St. Claire’s Saturday night for your rehearsal dinner. The dean of Westminster will meet with you on Friday at 2 to go through the ceremony. You’ll be in the poet’s chapel. And I believe everything else is ready to go.”  
“I finished my shopping yesterday, made my spa appointments for Saturday, and I have everything ready to go, I think.” Irene yawned herself. “And I’ve contacted the housekeeping service in Paris. They’re going to clean it up so we can honeymoon there.”  
“All I have to do is show up at these things, right?” Sherlock took his paper back.  
“That, and make a few promises. That’s all,” Irene said. She moved his paper down this time, and kissed his nose. “I’m off to the shower, boys.” She sauntered back out.  
“You are a lucky man, Sherlock,” John said.  
“I know it,” Sherlock answered.  
…  
The few days remaining to the wedding passed quickly as all interested parties fulfilled their duties. Friday’s meeting with the dean went well--Sherlock showed immense patience with the pompous man, and Irene was grateful--and her spa day left her relaxed and glowing. The rehearsal dinner at St. Claire’s had its moments--Mycroft and Sherlock sniped about the growing conflict in the Middle East, and John was late--it, too, went smoothly.  
As dawn broke over Baker Street on New Year’s Day, Sherlock woke in his bed alone. Irene spent the night at Mary’s, under the theory that the groom should not see the bride before the ceremony. He missed her more than he thought possible. He’d gotten used to having her there to turn to in the middle of the night.  
He got up, and wondered if Mary would fix Irene tea and biscuits or toast this morning. He missed that, too. Funny how quickly tending someone else became a habit.  
Sherlock showered, shaved, and put on black silk boxers to go under his Spencer Hart tuxedo. John had brought it down from his own closet the night before, and Sherlock dressed carefully, adding the diamond cufflinks he’d gotten as a gift for the Reichenbach case. He tied the tie with an expert hand, then settled into the living room with a cup of tea, waiting for John and Mrs. Hudson.  
It was just shy of 9 a.m.  
John ran down the stairs in his own tuxedo, looking natty. He patted his front pocket. “Got the rings, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock nodded, saying nothing. John observed that he looked a bit pale. Cold feet?  
“No, my feet are very warm, thank you very much,” Sherlock said coldly. “Just want it over with.”  
“Got it.” John smirked. “Hungry?”  
Mrs. Hudson popped up with a tray of pastries and fruit. “I told John I’d be up with a tray this morning. Here you are, boys. All right, Sherlock?”  
“Fine,” Sherlock said. To prove it, he selected a cream cake and bit in.   
“Well, I’ll be ready in just a few minutes. I’ve got a new dress, you know. Michele helped me pick it out after went to that Fantastic Pleasures store. My, the things they had in there!”  
John raised an eyebrow. “Fantastic Pleasures?”  
“So, John, will you be picking up Mary or will she meet us there?” Sherlock busied himself with the cream cake.  
“You can’t have forgotten already,” John said. “Mycroft will pick up Mary and Irene and bring them to Westminster Abbey. Mrs. Hudson and I are bringing you, to ensure that you don’t make a run for it.”  
“Again, not running,” Sherlock said firmly.  
“Good, because the cab will be here at 9:30.”  
“That will make us one full hour early for the ceremony,” Sherlock noted.  
“I have two jobs today, Sherlock. One is to get you to the ceremony on time and unmolested--which could be a challenge, given who you are--and to produce the rings on cue during the ceremony. One full hour early will help me meet goal one.”  
Sherlock smirked and acquiesced.  
…  
Irene also rose at the crack of dawn. She wasn’t hungry; in fact, she was mildly nauseated, and wished for Sherlock’s tea.   
“Not today, please,” she whispered to their baby. “Give us today.”  
She picked up a cracker from the packet she’d left on the bedside table in Mary’s guestroom and nibbled on it. It helped settle her stomach, and she started on her hair.  
At the spa the previous day, she’d had it color treated again so that it was all one, natural-looking red. It shined in the light. This morning, she’d comb setting lotion through it, then braid the sides and back, looping them up into a coronet with tendrils that escaped at her temples. It took time, but the overall result worked for her.  
Next, Irene added color to her cheeks, which were always pale in the morning these days. She added silver to her eyelids, and finished her full make-up with pale pink lipstick. She blotted, powdered, and felt armed. Irene added Mrs. Hudson’s earrings, and admired the effect in the mirror.  
A tap on the door alerted her to Mary’s presence. “Come in!” Irene called.  
Mary entered with a tray that contained croissants and herbal tea. “Thought you’d like a bite before we got you into that dress,” Mary said.  
“Thank you,” Irene said. “I just put my lipstick on, but with care, I can have one of those croissants. I love them.”  
“You can always freshen up again after.” Mary briskly poured tea. “Here you are.”  
Irene nibbled on a croissant, then picked up her cup and sipped. It was the blend she’d picked up at Herrods, the one that Sherlock usually made her in the morning. She sighed.  
“Yes, he sent some over with John yesterday,” Mary said, accurately interpreting the sigh. “Apparently he’s very keen on making certain you take care of yourself.”  
Irene smiled wistfully. “He’s the only person to ever want to take care of me.”  
“You’re lucky to have found him.” Mary touched her cup of tea to Irene’s.  
“Yes. To think, I’m going to be Mrs. Holmes today!”  
“You aren’t keeping your name?” Mary asked.  
“Ah, no. I will be Michele Irene Holmes, and I look forward to it,” Irene said. She finished her cup of tea and her croissant, and the nausea was quite gone.  Eighteen weeks today, she thought. Almost half-way.  
“Thank you again for the breakfast. I needed it this morning.” Irene stood slowly and crossed to the full length mirror on the back of the closet door. She smoothed her robe over her belly. In the past week, she’d grown out noticeably, from the small, barely there bump, to a small, definitely there bump. Irene smiled and rubbed it.  
“You know,” Mary interrupted. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who wanted children. You seem so self-assured, so professional.”  
“Mothers can be self-assured and professional,” Irene objected, then smiled. “In my former career, I had power over others only as an object. And I knew it. I never expected to be anything else. But then, I learned about Sherlock. I met him, and I fell in love with him. He helped me save myself from a tight spot, and I returned the favor. And then, quite surprisingly, we fell in love with each other, and I got pregnant. I never expected to. I was told I couldn’t get pregnant. I have some intrauterine scarring from early childhood sexual abuse. And certainly, in all my misbegotten behaviors, I never once had a pregnancy scare, even. But somehow, here I am, carrying Sherlock’s baby.” Tears filled Irene’s eyes. “And I couldn’t be happier about it.”  
Mary held out her arms to Irene, and the two hugged. “I’m happy for you, too, Michele,” Mary said. “I’m glad there’s happiness to your story.” She picked up the sheer white backless teddy that would go under Irene’s dress. “Let’s get you dressed, so you can take the next step on your journey.”  
Mary helped Irene into the teddy, then helped her step into the silver dress. She adjusted the folds and pleats so they flowed correctly, then helped her put on the Holmes pearls. Mary found the silver ballet slippers Irene had chosen for her shoes.  
“Why not heels?”  
“I don’t want to faint or fall today if I can help it.”  
“Right. Good thought.”  
Irene stepped into the slippers and turned to look at herself in the mirror. Mary sighed. “You look gorgeous, Michele.”  
Irene could say nothing. She picked up her silver lace wrap, pulling it closely around her shoulders, and picked up her matching silver purse. Mycroft was bringing flowers from the Holmes greenhouse. She took a deep breath. “I think I’m ready to go downstairs.”  
“I’ll go and get dressed then,” Mary said. “I just need to put my dress on.”  
Irene went to the top of the stairs, and slowly started down them. At the bottom, she sat in a chair in the foyer.  
Alone with her thoughts.  
Mary found her there fifteen minutes later, when she came racing down the stairs in a pink sheath with fur wrap, with matching pink heels. She needed the height.   
“Ready?”  
“I hope so, because I believe that’s Mycroft at the door.”  
…  
Sherlock paced next to Sir Isaac Newton’s grave. He desperately wanted a smoke, but John had headed him off at the pass on that one. Besides, he’d quit. Months ago.  
Apparently that didn’t matter when one was waiting to get married and the bride hadn’t shown yet.  
“Mary says they’re on their way,” John reported. “They’ve run into traffic at Picadilly, but they’re coming, Sherlock. She’s nearly here.”  
“They’re late,” Sherlock spat. “I should have known Mycroft couldn’t do this.”  
“If he can run a country, he can get your bride to the altar, Sherlock,” John soothed.   
“Unless someone invaded something.” Sherlock quickened his pacing. “I need a cigarette. Desperately.”  
John rolled his eyes. “You’ll manage.” John’s phone beeped. Text from Mary. Pulling up now. Tell Sherlock to take his place.  
“They’re here.” John grabbed Sherlock’s arm on his next pace by. “Come on. You need to take your place, because your bride is ready to walk down the aisle.”  
“Oh, God. Really? She’s here. Ah. I need a smoke.” Frenetic in a way John hadn’t seen in, well, a year, Sherlock practically raced into the poet’s side chapel to take his place at the front, fingers tapping, and John took his place next to him. He looked out and saw a gathering of Sherlock’s closest friends and acquaintances. Then he saw Mary.  
She looked a vision, carrying white lilies. As she appeared in the door, a violin quartet began playing Pachelbell’s “Canon in D.” Mary walked quietly down the aisle and took her place four paces to the left of Sherlock, and John resolved to ask her to marry him at the earliest possible opportunity.  
As she took her place, John looked up to see Sherlock’s face in arrested animation, and followed his line of sight.   
Irene appeared on Mycroft’s arm.  
Sherlock looked dumbstruck, absolutely silent. And as Mycroft handed Irene to Sherlock, John thought he saw a tear in Sherlock’s eye.   
The violins stopped playing, and the Westminster Dean stepped forward, welcoming the friends and family of Sherlock and “Michele.” He offered a short prayer, then went straight into the ceremony.  
The couple exchanged rings, and vows, their voices firm. A soloist stepped forward to sing “The Lord’s Prayer,” a cappella, and the couple kissed. They stepped to the side altar to sign the marriage license, with John and Mary signing as witnesses. The dean smiled, and then,   
“I now present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”  
To the joyous sounds of violins, Sherlock and Irene, walked back down the short aisle, shaking hands and exchanging air kisses with their friends. John watched them with envy, then offered his arm to Mary, who likewise looked happy, and jealous, for her new friends.   
John turned to Mary, smiling down at her. “What do you say, Mary? Shall we plan our wedding, too?”  
“Yes, John,” she said joyously, and kissed him full on the lips.  
“None of that, John!” Mycroft called out. “This is Sherlock’s day!”  
To general laughter, the small crowd spilled out into the square and out to the National Gallery of Art for the bridal luncheon.  
“A new life together, Sherlock,” Irene said.  
“May it last forever,” Sherlock replied.  
  
End of book II  
  
  
  



End file.
